Disaster on Yuman
by Ihasabukkit
Summary: When a NR mission goes horribly wrong, the possible loss of Wedge Antilles forces Rogues and old comrades to unite on a risky mission that could easily end in disaster.
1. The Bad Plan

I notice Rogue Squadron fandom has died down since the series ended, but hopefully there are still a few fans roaming around out there!

Takes place roughly 7-9 ABY, so Wedge would be nearing 30. Pre-Wraiths, I think (though that may change, depending on where the plot takes me).

_Rogue Squadron_

1. Commander Wedge Antilles

2. Jorram Nelson (oc)

3. Major Tycho Celchu

4. Lieutenant Hobbie Klivian

5. Lieutenant Corran Horn

6. Ooryl Qyrg

7. Gavin

8. Asyr

9. Wes Janson

10. Slee

11. Inyri Forge

12. Feylis Ardeyle

* * *

As Hobbie, Tycho, and Wedge sprinted out of the burning building, the bad aim of the few remaining stormtroopers whizzing by them, they all were concurrently thinking that their situation couldn't get any worse. At least they were still alive - the ground team they were supposed to be protecting was dead, to a man.

As they got to the dock where they had left their X-wings, they ground to a halt. Hobbbie's X-wing had been crushed under a falling pillar, a mass of twisted metal and smoke.

"Sithspawn!" Tycho turned to Wedge as they took shelter behind some destroyed machinery, wincing as the bolts scorched the metal around them. "Tonna's backup file was in Hobbie's X-wing."

"More importantly, my _ride_ was in that X-wing," Hobbie cursed.

An idea dawned on Wedge. It wasn't a very good idea, admittedly, but then he had acted on worse. "Ok, here's my plan. Hobbie, take my X-wing, and you and Tycho fly back up to help the _Mon Remonda_."

We're not leaving a man behind, so don't even try." His second in command looked at him stubbornly.

Behind him Hobbie nodded in agreement. "Not gonna happen, boss."

"You trust me, right?" They all flinched as a blaster shot hit the metal right above their heads. Wedge looked at them expectantly. "Right?" Looking more suspicious than trusting, the two pilots slowly nodded their heads. "Good. Because this time, I actually _do_ have a plan, and it's going to work. While you two fly up, I'm going to go back and beam the plans up to one of our Star Destroyers. They should both be in range by now."

"You're conveniently ignoring the fact that this place is about to blow up," Tycho snapped. "How the hell are you going to get back out?"

Wedge gave them his most rakish and confident grin. "The least of your worries, Tych. Not getting blown up is one of my special talents."

But both Hobbie and Tycho looked torn, considering. Wedge knew they suspected the truth, but he also knew that there was no other way. Time was in short supply, and about to get shorter. There was a huge crash, and they spun around to see another ornamental pillar come crashing down...just meters away from Tycho's X-wing.

Tycho energetically pointed a finger at him. "If this is a martyr self-sacrifice, Wedge, I'm not going to humor you; I'm just putting 'stupid egoist' on your gravestone, got that?"

Hobbie nodded. "And I'm going to give Rogue Squadron to Wes."

Wedge growled, a grin underneath the grimace. "That's beneath your power, Captain Klivan, and Janson couldn't deal with the mutiny, anyways. And Tycho, that better be 'universe's most brilliant and humble crowned jewel of Corellia.' And a really good smuggler."

"Wedge, you were an awful smuggler!"

"That's just Mirax talking," Wedge shot back, and then went into a crouch, checking the charge on his blaster. He could practically hear the adrenaline pumping through his veins. "Whatever happens, don't let the ties take out _Mon Remonda'_s shields, and make sure the Star Destroyers get into the right quadrant."

Tycho gave in and grimaced. "They'll be there. And you watch your rear end, boss."

The three of them paused amidst the chaos to make eye contact. It was a look of comradery that only fellow soldiers could share, an implicit understanding beyond the comprehension of civilians or innocents. It spoke to how long they had been fighting together, throwing their bodies and fighters in the path of destruction.

"On the count of three," Wedge shouted over the roar of another explosion, breaking the spell, "we split! One...two...THREE!"

Wedge leaped out from behind the machinery and sprinted towards the other side of the hanger, spraying blaster shots in the direction of the unseen stormtroopers. Hobbie and Tycho hesitated for one moment, and then made like mynocks out of hell for the x-wings.

* * *

It was easy for Wedge to find his way back to the control room, and conveniently none of the stormtroopers in the docking bay bothered pursuing him. Not that he blamed them – a base-wide self-destruct system made what he was doing rather stupid. As he stumbled back into the eerily still room, tripping over corpses, he couldn't help shaking his head in regret. The mission so far was a disaster.

Several months ago, General Airen Cracken's agents happened upon a gold-mine of intelligence - a high ranking Imperial had quietly defected to the fledgling New Republic while retaining his command post. In short, Cracken could gather information without the Imperials knowing it had been leaked.

The diamond; a small planet in the heart of Imperial space was revealed to be a major communications planning center. It was here that all the software and new codes for Imperial data transfer and communication were programmed, and where much of the encrypted information transfer between planets and fleets passed through. If one could get in and quickly steal the information before it was destroyed, they would have weeks, if not months, of access to oblivious Imperial channels.

Cracken had organized a ground mission to stage a simple strike and take. It seemed a feasible plan, considering that base's defense was not in machine power or manpower, but in the secrecy of its location. _Another case of Imperials falling on old Alliance strategies to survive_, Wedge thought.

Just an hour before, the _Mon Remonda_ and two captured Star Destroyers appeared without warning in orbit around the planet, releasing fighters to combat the few tie squadrons and raining fire onto the earth surrounding the central base.

The infiltration squad flew in on a _Lambda_ craft, with Wedge and Wing One of Rogue Squadron flying cover for the atmospheric mission. The _lambda_ landing went smoothly as the Rogues handled the few ground-based ties and the anti-starfighter batteries. Tonna and her crew exited into a hairball of stormtrooper fire, which Wedge and his three squadron mates could only do so much against. Strangely, they had noticed that the imperials firing on the commando team were not doing so methodically, but seemed to be fleeing to several shuttles in the hanger.

After the team blasted their way into the building, a wounded stormtrooper made it apparent why the planet was so lightly guarded. The Imperials had installed a massive self-destruct system in the entire base; if compromised, the sensitive information on the planet would simply blow up. Fortunately, in a show of humanity uncharacteristic of Imperial planning, the system was timed such that all the base inhabitants would have time to evacuate. Wedge realized now that this wasn't humanity; not only was it inconceivable that a ground crew could infiltrate as quickly as Cracken's commandoes had, but the struggling Empire couldn't spare the hundreds of technicians and troops that were stationed on the planet. It would have been a heady blow.

The stormtrooper had revealed that the explosions would happen in stages, with external structures targeted first. And they were; the hangers, most empty except for a few tardy stormtrooper transports, exploded in balls of flame that the starfighter pilots could see dotting the massive base. Collateral damage; thirteen of Cracken's commandoes. The terrified stormtrooper told Tonna that the sensitive control centers would be next. With no time to lose, Tonna had led her crew straight to the central database, and they had managed to disengage the self-destruct mechanism for that wing of the building. How, Wedge had absolutely no idea. But then, he wasn't used to diffusing bombs, just setting them off.

They had begun streaming the codes in the database to _Mon Remonda_, until _Mon Remonda's_ communication center was taken out by a suicide tie-bomber. The next sequence in the self-destruct mechanism then went off, taking with it Rogue Two, Jorram Nelson, an excitable new recruit from Borleias. A tie hit by debris from an exploding command tower had spun directly into his fighter. There was no time for Jorram to register Tycho's shouted warning or for him to eject, and he had disappeared in a ball of sickly yellow and orange.

At this point, most of the base personell seemed to have evacuated, but some of the remaining imperials had the sense to realize that New Republic troops had actually reached the planet, and were inside the base. It was these few stormtroopers that picked off another significant portion of Tonna's crew.

Next Tonna's people had tried streaming the data to the _Torlan's Freedom,_ one of their Star Destroyers in orbit, but the sattelite dish that projected to that particular region of space had been destroyed in the second self-destruct sequence. In order to receive the data, one of the two Star Destroyers would have needed to enter the region that the crippled _Mon Remonda_ was in, something that would have taken time they just didn't have. They tried streaming to their Lambda craft, but a rogue tie-bomber destroyed the grounded ship while Wedge, Hobbie, and Tych were still reeling and distracted by the loss of Nelson. Tonna had frantically commed the pilots, and they could hear screams and blaster fire behind her voice. She needed foot backup, they heard, and then static.

At this point, the entire base seemed abandoned. The tie-fighters were vaped, the batteries were quiet, and so the three x-wings landed in a desperate attempt to see if they could help the commandos they were supposed to be protecting. They'd found their way to the database room by following a trail of dead bodies, corpses of both imperials and their friends and acquaintances. The room itself was the scene of a massacre. Part of the bomb sequence had apparently gone off despite Tonna's efforts, and while the important computer equipment was largely untouched, the blast and shrapnel had taken out a dozen of the remaining commandoes. It was a gory sight.

Tonna's body was leaning over the control panel, a stormtrooper blaster shot steaming from the back of her head.

"Sithspan!" Gagging from the smell of blood and burning hair and flesh, they had set about finishing what Tonna had started at the console. They used the entry codes from her datapad and began streaming the data to Hobbie's shipboard computer and R2.

A second attack had forced them to run while the data was still streaming.


	2. Cracken

Cracken was not a happy man. He had no idea what was happening to his commandoes on the ground, and not having intelligence was his biggest irritation in life.

"Sir, we have communications from the base!" a highpitched communications officer looked up from his console.

Cracken's stomach jumped into his chest; communications had been nonexistent since _Mon Remonda_ had suffered the loss of its bridge. "Bring it up. Full screen holo."

The first thing Cracken had done when he had been given _Torlan's Freedom _as a base of operations was to create an auxilalry bridge that mirrored the control centers used during the Rebel Alliance's early days. It was adjacent to the main bridge where the ship's captain ran the craft, which had retained it's original Imperial design. Cracken had found he was uncomfortable standing above his team like an imperial officer, hence this one level, crowded, much more intimate intelligence control room. It also made it easier for him to look at his subordinates screens.

"It's an encrypted New Republic broadcast on a main imperial channel, sir. It has Ltn. Tonna's input code. It..." the young Mon Calamari punched away at a few controls, and his eyes narrowed in concentration as static came out from the input com.. "It's only broadcasting in the area near _Mon Remonda_, sir. If we moved closer to that sector-"

"Done." Cracken straightened his back. "Agent Wessiri, tell Captain Bungung to move the ship closer to _Mon Remonda_." A pretty woman dressed nondescriptly in New Republic uniform, with no rank insignia, nodded, saluted, and excited for the bridge.

The communications officer, a Ltn. Orkwall, Cracken remembered, continued punching away at his console, occasionally reaching out to adjust a nob. Underneath his feet, Cracken felt the thrum of the engines as they began manuevering the massive ship in a different direction. He realized he was tapping his foot with impatience; he quickly stopped himself.

Ltn. Orkwall garbled a noise of excitement when the static began to clear on the screen. "We have audio and visual, sir. It should clear up soon."

Another voice, cooler and deeper, grabbed his attention from behind. "General, we're also getting a strong data transfer. It looks like the data we came here for, sir."

"Imperial encryption?"

"No, sir, it's one of ours."

Cracken felt a surge of triumph. Streaming with a New Republic encryption had no doubt taken the infiltration crew extra time and effort, but it would make their job that much easier. The Imperials wouldn't be able to decipher what data they knew about their operations, and it also meant that no-one could eavesdrop on his conversation with his ground-based agents.

"This is...calling New Rep...code zero-nine...five...-"

Cracken punched the two-way speaker on Orkwall's console, and the Mon Calamari jumped at the sudden intrusion into his established space. "This is General Cracken. Tonna, speak to me. What's your status--- ANTILLES?"

The screen had suddenly cleared to reveal a rather disheveled and bloody fighter pilot. The pilot looked equally as surprised at the sudden appearance of Cracken. "General." He regained his composure and saluted. "Antilles reporting in for Ltn. Tonna, sir."

"What- don't tell me Tonna suddenly decided to try her hand at piloting. Because you sure as hell are not one of my commandoes, Antilles." Cracken didn't look, but he could hear that a relative hush had descended on the control room. They were, no doubt, all craning their necks to listen in.

Antilles blinked brown eyes at him. "The commandos are gone, sir."

A chill settled in Cracken's gut. "Dead, or fled, Commander?"

"Dead sir." Airen watched as Antilles reach up and take hold of the camera settings. He toggled for a few seconds, obviously trying to reset it so the camera took in more than his face. Cracken jerked back when the camera range readjusted. Orkwall made a choking noise and covered his mouth with his hands, and the control room erupted in worried noise. Half the room had been blown to pieces, and he could see the pieces of many of his agents. The bodies of men and women that he had handpicked and trusted were draped over chairs and consoles. The body of Lieutenant Tonna was slumped at a console only five feet behind where Wedge was sitting. The pilot must have noticed that Orkwell was staring at the hole in her head, because he hurriedly reached up and readjusted the holo-cam view again.

"General, there isn't much time, so I'll be brief," Antilles informed him. "My guess is that that codes will take about 20 minutes to upload." The man paused, and seemed to be checking something to the left of the screen. He winced. "Maybe 25. In that case, I don't think it will all get to you."

"Are you under attack? Antilles, I have no idea what the hell is going on over there, and I would really, really appreciate an update."

Antilles nodded. "Sorry, General. As far as we can tell, when we entered orbit, the base entered into a self-destruct cycle."

"Self-des...sithspit."

"Yes, sir. It's been going off in cycles, and a bunch of the external hangers exploded not long ago. The entire base seems to have been evacuated."

"So, every commando-"

Wedge looked authentically pained. "Taken out in the explosions or stormtrooper fire, General."

"Double sithspit." Cracken suddenly felt unbelieveably weary. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "And your pilots...?"

"Nelson didn't make it. Major Celchu and Klivan are on their way back up. We tried streaming the data to an X-wing after Tonna got taken out, but the X-wing got smashed." Antilles' calm demeanor was interrupted by a strange smile. "They think I actually have a plan."

"You don't have a plan?" Cracken stopped rubbing his eyes to stare at the man, who's expression became a little sheepish. It was a face Airen doubted many people ever saw on Wedge Antilles.

"I'm open for suggestions, actually. But I'm pretty sure the only plans that will work end at 'stream as much data as possible before base goes boom'."

Cracken felt that awful sensation in his gut, the one that rose to bite him everytime he was torn between an agent getting out or finishing the mission and saving hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives. Come on, General, he told himself. Time for those fast, live-saving decisions that you put your trust in.

"Alright, Antilles, here's what I want. I want you to stay there until most of the data has transferred. I'm going to pull some strings and get another shuttle from _Mon Remonda_ sent down to pick you up."

The brown-haired bust on the screen shook it's head adamantly. "Negative, General! That would take half an hour, at least, and this base is going to self-destruct before then."

"Commander, I am not going to walk in and tell the remaining pilots of Rogue Squadron that I am responsible for your death."

Wedge looked grim. "And telling the families of a dead rescue team that you sent them on a hopeless mission is better?"

Cracken growled. "You don't hold your punches, Antilles." He paused, hating how hard the next words came to him. "You can leave now, Antilles. You have time to make it away from the base. Take a landspeeder, set up camp..."

Cracken noticed that Iella Wessiri was standing to his left, out of the pickup range of the holocam.

Wedge grinned at him like a maniac with a deathwish. Which he probably was, Cracken thought. It was the nature of anyone crazy enough to pilot a flimsy starfighter against Death Stars. "That would be too logical for a Rogue, sir. And anyways, chances are I still wouldn't make it out in time."

The two officers both knew the truth, though. Good people had died trying to get this information to the New Republic; the evidence was the bodies and blood littering the scene behind Wedge's head. To abandon the mission now would be to abandon the friends who had given their lives for it. It would invalidate their deaths. That was something Commander Antilles couldn't do, and Cracken knew he wouldn't have been able to either in the same situation.

Cracken gave the holo-image a stern look. "Antilles, you're a good man, and I hate to lose you like this."

Antilles nodded in acknowledgement. It was a heartfelt goodbye, and the best the hardened General could get away with in front of an entire team of subordinates. It was one officer acknowledging the other as a peer. Suddenly Antilles started, and looked towards the direction where Cracken assumed the door was. He could barely make out muffled shouting and pounding. Antilles regained his grim expression grim. "Sir, if I can take your leave, I have some things to attend to. Looks like some imps want to shut the broadcast down."

"Do what you will, Commander. May the force be with you."

The audio and visual turned to static, and Orkwall began hurriedly pushing buttons, trying to bring the connection back up. Cracken looked over to the other officer to see if the pilot had inadvertently cut the broadcast as well; but he got a thumbs up in response.

Iella looked at him with a stony expression. Cracken knew she had been in contact with the Rogue Squadron pilots on Coruscant; that probably made Wedge's death harder than it would have been. "Sir, we've been analyzing the data as it's coming. You were right, sir."

"Clones?"

"Clones." They were speaking quietly, under the range of what the rest of the intelligence team could hear. There were no leaks from this room, but intelligence habits die hard. "Nothing for certain, but the plans are definitely similar to the blueprints for cloning tanks. There was also a supply list for biological elements used for the bodies."

"Then our contact was right." The two of them were walking back to Cracken's command seat, which was situated next to a large tactical screen with synopsis on all the different stations in the control room. "A cloning facility. It explains why the self-destruct mechanism is taking so much time."

Iella looked at him curiously. "Are you saying the facility is actually underneath the communication base?"

Cracken nodded. "It would make sense, wouldn't it? A perfect cover-up for the ship traffic-"

"And the prolonged self-destruct mechanism gives them time to save the cloning tanks." Understanding dawned on Iella. "The communications building is a diversion, a coverup."

"While they're busy smuggling their god-forsaken creations out from under our noses! Sithspawn!" Cracken pounded a meaty fist against a flashing tactical table. Several people stopped what they were doing to look at him.

"I want scout ships covering every travel sector around the planet. If something does manage to slip thorugh and leave the system, we need to know vector, time, size, and destination."

Iella nodded to a nearby officer, who hurried off with the orders. "General, should we send more ground troops?"

"No." Cracken shook his head. "The self-destruction threat is real. While losing cloning resources would be inconceivable to the Empire, so is letting us get our hands on the empty facilities. They want to save their equipment; they don't want us to know they had it. It's a delicate balance between saving their facilities and revelaing themselves. Hence the time-bomb." He paused, deep in thought. "The self-destruct triggered probably an hour ago, when we entered the system. That's plenty of time for them to get the equipment out. Otherwise it would have blown right away."

"If we could catch them on the ground, General, or even get a look at the cloning facilities-"

"Antilles is right, it would take us half an hour to get another team down there. It will have blown by then. That or it would blow with them in it. Get Skywalker on deck. See if he can sense the clones. We might be able to track them down if any leave the system."

Another aide scurried off. "And also, while Antilles is sitting down there, we might as well have him do an extra search for more material. The computers seem to have left largely unprotected; tell him Tonna's datacard has entry codes if he needs them."

"Sir, Antilles is a pilot, not a slicer."

The General gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "He learns fast. Get someone on the line to help him. And you!" An aide looked over with mild panic. "Tell Admiral Ackbar that we may have some Imperial friends popping up soon. Tell him to be prepared to send reinforcements."

"Sir?"

"Don't play dumb, Liutenant Vrahash. We all know that if the Empire has cloning interests here, they are going to do everything possible to protect them-"

"General!" One of his people rushed into the control room, almost falling over herself as she skidded to halt in front of him. "Imperial Star Destroyer just left hyperspace! They think it's the _Exterminator_."

Cracken nodded, his expression grim. "This is going to be one hell of a day."


	3. Old Friends

The second Wedge closed the communication line he scrambled for the dead bodies closest to him, looking for a blaster with a fresh charge. The pounding on the door was getting louder. No doubt some of the Imperials had organized themselves enough to notice that a steady transmission was beaming from the base. Why had they sent foot soldiers instead of just blowing it up?

"Shoot first, think later, Antilles," he murmured to himself. He ripped a vibroblade and sheath from a downed commando and shoved it into the waistline of his flight suit before hurrying over the debris as quickly and quietly as possible. Blaster at the ready, he took up a fighting position beside the door.

The pounding stopped and he heard the unmistakeable hum of a metal cutter. He'd sealed the door with a blaster shot when he came in; they were just going to cut through the lock system. Behind that noise, he suddenly could make out a low rumbling as well, and the building began shaking slightly, pieces of the ripped ceiling falling down around him. Another explosion had gone off somewhere nearby. The stormtroopers, or whoever was outside the door, stopped the metal cutter for just a moment before continuing.

It took a full three minutes before the job was completed. There was silence as the enemy on the other side readied itself, and then Wedge found himself fighting for his life.

* * *

General Cracken had joined Captain Bungung on the bridge. The Sullustan's short stature made him look almost ridiculous on the stark and imposing walkway, but Cracken knew better than to judge him for it. Bungung was an extremely competent captain, and an imposing warrior when times demanded it.

"Your analysis of the situation, Captain?"

Bungung looked at the taller human with his large, almost comical eyes. "They want to protect this base more than we thought they did."

He was smart, Cracken thought to himself. No point in lying to the man. "We...think that the communications center might be a cover-up for a different facility."

"And let me guess; if I, a non-intelligence member of the New Republic, knew the nature of this facility, you would have to kill me."

Cracken's eyes crinkled in wry amusement. "I was right. You are smart."

Bungung's chittering laughter resounded around the bridge. "Well, since I must forget the nature of this facility, how important is it that we get it?"

"When the base blows, Captain, we will lose valuable information. We have one operative on the ground with access to the databases; the more time we can give him, the better. The infrastructure itself is doomed, so securing the planet isn't a top priority."

"Hmmm. And what do you think this new Star Destroyer wants?"

"To distract us. They are trying to hide something. If we can hold out and continue searching all craft fleeing the base, the higher the chances we can find the clue to understanding this base."

"And the more you'll feel you haven't sent fifty good people to a needless death?"

Cracken stiffened, and turned an eye to the Sullustan. "You make presumptions, Captain. Though twelve minutes ago, you would have been right. New intelligence has changed our situation."

Nununb nodded. "_Mon Remonda_ is crippled. I predict she will leave the battle. And while we may be understaffed, one Imperial Star Destroyer is no match for both of ours."

"Starfighters?"

"We have Antilles and Rogue Squadron to deal with their ties. Blue Squadron is also under his command."

Cracken resisted the urge to wince. "Not completely, Captain. The contact on the ground is Commander Antilles."

"What?" The Sullustan turned his huge eyes to the general in surprise. "I assumed one of your commandos was down there still."

Cracken shook his head, and Bungung sighed. "Very well, then sir. We will hold the Destroyer and their squadrons with what we have until you have your information. You will inform me the moment we are good to leave the system?"

"Of course, captain."

* * *

Wedge had decided that pain was one of the galaxy's least pleasant creations. He knew he was injured, so why was his body telling him the obvious? His X-wing had done the same thing once; an entire wing had been obviously blown off, and the shipboard computer had irritated and distracted him by beeping a nonstop warning. As if he wasn't aware of the damage.

The beeping now was coming from the bleeding wound on the left side of his head, the blaster wound that had grazed his right side to the bone, the wrenched muscles in his legs, the broken ribs, and the harsh bruises and shallow rips over his arms and torso.

He'd done pretty well for himself, considering the odds. It had been one of him against five well-armed stormtroopers. He'd taken the first one down instantly with his blaster, caught the second with the same element of surprise and had shot the man point blank in the throat. When he'd then been injured by a lucky blaster shot, however, things hadn't gone quite as smoothly. As he'd hoped, he'd moved in too close for truly effective blaster use, and the fight had turned into a physical struggle with gun butts. He'd used the stormtroopers as shields against their buddies, and had gotten two more with his knife. The last one he knifed inbetween the armor on the right elbow, and though the soldier couldn't shoot a blaster, he could still punch, tackle, and put up one hell of a fight. The scene had ended with Wedge being slowly strangled on the ground...when luck destined that he'd find a blaster with his grasping left hand. The rest ended typically.

Taking a deep breath, and gritting his teeth against the pain shooting along his nerves, Wedge gripped the edge of a computer and tried to pull himself to his feet. He stood there for awhile, just gasping. His injuries weren't life-threatening in the short term, and he didn't think he would bleed to death before the cuts clotted.

Good. As he made the agonizing trip back to the communications console, his body told him that the fight had been hard; his mind told him that it had been too easy. One pilot doesn't take down five stormtrooopers in close combat, not unless that pilot were Plourr or Xerxce. He glanced back at the bodies. Their armor, he couldn't help noticing, was scorched and battered to a degree that he couldn't have inflicted. 'That's it,' he thought. The regiment sent to the control center must have been wiped out by one of the nearby explosions. These five had been the only combat ready survivors.

"Aren't I lucky," Wedge murmured, then winced as his leg seized up.

When he finally made it to the console, he slid slowly into the seat, carefully trying to find a position that didn't send pain shooting through his body. He blinked when he saw his image reflected in the blank plexiglass vidscreen. He looked like he'd gotten in a fight with a Wookie. The blood matted his hair on one side of his face, and his orange flight suit was covered with blood splatters, both his and his opponents'.

A sudden grin of amusement lit up his face. He looked like a hero in a really bad holo-movie, right after they had taken out all of the villain's henchmen and was about to take on the boss. No one in those movies ever got bloody noses or swollen eyes; it wasn't attractive enough. And while every other part of him looked awful, his face was swell-free. He snorted out loud. If anyone ever made a movie about him, at least his death scene would look dramatic. Maybe they would hire Face as the actor. Maybe the audience would assume he had been devastatingly handsome.

Feeling he had regained whatever breath his broken ribs would allow, he reached for the communications channel. He hit audio, and then hesitated above video. There was no real reason to broadcast his bloodied mug to Cracken. And besides, if there was no footage, the holodrama writer might take some liberties and have him dying in an X-wing.

* * *

"Wedge? What are you doing there?"

"Luke? What are you doing there, more like?"

"Telling you to get in your X-wing and get out of there, is what I'm doing! For sith's sake, Wedge, there's still time to get out!"

"Um, no can do, Luke. I'm pretty sure there isn't a vehicle in this entire base that hasn't blown up or flown off."

"That's impossible. Find a landspeeder, or a repair dolly."

"The second explosions took out all the unused hangers, Luke. Nothing left."

Luke felt frustration growing, and he had to work to keep it in check. With an apprentice watching him closely, losing it was not something he wanted to do. "Well, here's an idea, Wedge. Have you considered walking out?"

There was a pause on the other side. "Walking? Like, that thing you do after you get out of your X-wing?" Wedge's voice seemed truly bemused.

Luke didn't find it very funny. "Yes, walking, or running, anything to get out of that exploding death trap you're in."

Hearing the anger in Luke's voice, Wedge didn't come back with a quip. He seemed contrite about upsetting his friend. "Sorry. It's ten miles to the edge of the base. And anyways...I'm not really in any shape to be running around right now."

"You're injured?"

"Just a bit banged up."

"Why do I get the feeling that that is a huge understatement."

There silence from both sides as Luke rubbed his forehead, trying to get control of his emotions. Wedge risked his life everyday. Why was he so upset this time? Maybe because this time, there was no getting out, and they both knew it. His friend was as good as dead. There was no slim window of escape, no lucky break, no friend to save him at the opportune time-

"Luke?"

"What, Wedge?"

There was a pause on the other line. "You aren't mad at me, right?"

Luke felt all the rage melt out of him. Yes, he was mad that Wedge had to be so brave all the time, mad that his friend didn't think more of his own life. Mad that he hadn't been there to stop it. Mad that there wasn't anything he could do right now. But mad at Wedge?

"No, Wedge, I'm not mad at you. You know, you're kind of a hard guy to be angry with."

Wedge gave his friendly chuckle. "Really? I always thought I was pretty good at rubbing people the wrong way."

Luke smiled. "Just your enemies and your superiors, Wedge."

"That's good to know. Hey, you said something about cloning on this planet, right?"

Luke and Iella shared a glance. "Yes. They think there might be a cloning facility in the communications base. That's why the self-destruct mechanism is taking so long."

"So the clones can evacuate!" Wedge crowed.

"Well, no, we think they want to salvage the equipment," Luke said. "I doubt tube bodies can walk by themselves."

"Wait, give me a second, Luke, I want to check something out..."

The static rumbled and rustled, and they heard a few loud thumps on the other line. Iella was fairly sure she heard some Corellian curses as well.

Luke looked over at the woman curiously. He could feel the worry radiating off her, despite the calm and controlled expression she had donned. He wondered what her relationship to Wedge was. He wouldn't pry into her mind to find out, though. He would just ask Wedge sometime...sithspit. He was at Wedge Antilles' deathbed.

"Guess what!" Another large thump came across the audio, and Wedge sounded like he had just figured out a way to make X-wings faster than A-wings. "I think I found your clones, Luke!"

Luke furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "Huh?" Not a proper response for a Jedi Master, he realized. He hoped Kyp hadn't noticed his lack of cool.

His friend's voice came across a little crackly, as if Wedge were only partially facing the responder. "The stormtroopers! The stormtroopers are the clones! It explains why they all had the exact same running gait! Wait, let me check a third one, just to be sure. Twin brothers aren't out of the realm of normal-" There was more static and a few more thumps and clacks.

"Sithspawn, that one smells like he hasn't showered in a month! And I thought I smelled bad after a mission," Wedge's voice grumbled.

"Wedge, are they-?"

The voice came across the line seriously. "They are, Luke. They're all identical."

"Clones," Luke breathed. Iella had already hurried off to tell General Cracken the news.


	4. Trapped

"Wedge, I hate to say this, but your suicide missions always end up being very useful."

Another chuckle. "Yeah, but I don't have you around to save me this time."

Luke felt his throat squeeze shut, and he struggled to hold back the deep emotions. Think of Kyp. Hearing that Luke didn't respond, not trusting his voice to speak at the moment, Wedge spoke up uncertainly in the silence.

"Luke?"

"Still here, Wedge."

"Look, if you have other things you need to be doing right now, it wouldn't bother me." It occured to Luke that his friend meant it. Not that he didn't want Luke around...he just didn't want to be a burden.

"Wedge, don't be an idiot! I don't care if a planet were blowing up. I'm your wing, alright? You're stuck with me to the end." Luke's voice shook a little, but he brought it back under control. He and Wedge weren't soul-mates, they hadn't grown up together, but they were something else; the comrades in arms who had seen each other through thick and thin. Wedge was the most reliable, trustworthy, honest, friendly-"

"Luke? Hey, I don't know if I ever told you..." his friend sounded embarrassed, and thoughtful. "I just wanted to thank you for all those times you saved me. And I mean, not even me. All of us. All that stuff you pulled, Luke; I've thought it out, and I think you're the reason we're all alive."

"Wedge-"

"No, hear me out. I don't know how I got lucky enough to be your friend, but I couldn't ask for a better one. You're the best type there is, Luke."

"What, the kind with psychic powers?"

"No, not that. Though don't get me wrong, that is pretty helpful sometimes. You just always see things through to the end. And you look out for everybody. You never think twice about climbing out on a limb for people. I just...I was always really proud to fight with you, right?"

Luke didn't trust his voice to answer. He stood staring at the static of the screen. Wedge must have been worrying at the silence again, because he came back in like before.

"Luke?" He was probably worried that he'd made him upset, Luke thought. And it wasn't because he was scared that his friend might be mad at him; he actually didn't want Luke to feel bad. It was probably killing Wedge that when he died, Luke would have to mourn. Wedge would probably sneak off and die in a corner if it meant no one would feel bad about it.

"I'm still here, Wedge. And...thanks." He meant it. Couldn't think of anything else to say. He looked over at Kyp. The boy was expressionless, probably shocked that a simple fighter pilot with no force abilities to speak of had put Luke into such an emotional state. Well, if Kyp wanted to think less of him for it, Luke told himself, then Kyp was just lessening himself.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Just two minutes later, Major Tycho Celchu had wheedled, yelled, and squirmed his way into the Intelligence center via comlink. An overwhelmed Orkwall had patched his X-wing comlink through to Wedge's audio. Tycho hadn't been happy when he found out his suspicions had been right, and that his commander really had absolutely no way of leaving the base before it blew.

He was, in fact, furious. "Sithspawn, Wedge, you told me you had a plan!"

Luke and Cracken stood not ten feet away, whispering intently to each other as busy intelligence agents hurried around. Iella was occupied at one of the data analyzation centers, conveniently within hearing distance of the static-filled exchange. Unbenowest to either pilot, every other agent within distance was trying to listen in as well.

"I did have a plan."

"Commander, I don't know if you've realized this, but when you say plan, it should be implicit that you mean GOOD plan."

"Well, that's implicit for most people. Come on, Tycho, you know most of my ideas aren't good ones."

They could practically hear the silent fuming on the other line. "Look, Wedge-"

"Save it, Tych. I'm running on borrowed luck. I have to obey the return policy sometime or another. How are the Rogues?"

"Hobbie, Gavin, and Fleur all had to punch out. They're in bacta. Except Nelson and you, we're all fine. We're guarding escape routes the imperials might use to get to hyperspace."

"Hobbie blew up my X-wing? Why am I not surprised. But this is good; once you get new fighters in, you'll still be at almost full fighting strength."

"Wedge, that's still once 'we' get new fighters in."

"We both know it's you, not we. It's not a big deal, Tycho."

"I could have stayed. I'm better with imp computers."

"Winter would have killed me, Tych. And knowing Hobbie, he would have lost three limbs before he reached the control room."

"It's still 'stupid egoist' on your gravestone. You know that?"

Wedge chuckled. "Yeah."

When Tycho spoke again, they could hear his voice was choked, even over the static of the comlink. "Wedge, do you have any idea how many people are going to miss you?"

There was a brief silence on the air, as he seemed to consider. "Well... I know you'll miss me."

"Just me?"

"Well, without me, you're responsible for raising Wes." Tycho snorted. "Listen, Tych, I'm sorry." Wedge's voice was quiet, and regretful. "I know what I would feel like if you died. If you feel at all the same, I'm sorry."

This time Tycho's voice was so choked he could barely get the words across. "It's alright, friend. I'll forgive you."

---------------------------------------------------------

"Wedge, are you there?"

Luke worried when a voice didn't respond instantly. The explosions on the com were getting louder, obviously hitting areas near to where Wedge was. Cracken's people had somehow uncovered the plans to the self-destruct cycle in the data that had already been beamed up. The explosions were planned to take out sensitive information centers first, while areas with personel were untouched until later. The final cycle would be one massive explosion that would demolish the entire base, but they hadn't been able to decipher when that explosion would take place. It could be anytime.

Luke felt relief roll off Iella when Wedge's voice crackled back to life. "I'm still here, Luke. I'm having trouble accessing the information you want, though. I'm not very good at slicing."

"That's ok, Wedge. Look, we need to see what the clones look like. Is there a way you can get one of them to the vid-cam?"

He heard a sigh come across the line. "I was worried you'd ask that. Just give me a moment."

Wessiri looked at him. She had given up pretending to be occupied with other tasks, and her whole attention was now on the communication console. "Master Skywalker, can you tell how badly he's injured? With your skills?"

Luke shook his head. "I don't have the power to pinpoint him at this distance and with all these people. If he was closer, yes." He noticed Kyp Durron was watching him with interest, felt it in the Force. Farther out he could also feel the pain of the hundreds of dead, dying, and wounded Imperials and New Republic troops in the system. Honing in on one man's pain in that mess of emotion, familiar friend or not, would have been extremely difficult.

Another wave of worry washed off from Iella, though her face betrayed little. He looked at her with sympathy. "It's possible that if he was seriously injured, I would have felt it. I've occasionally picked up on the pain of friends, even at a distance." Iella nodded, looking slightly reassured.

Another rash of swearing lit up the comlink, and Luke couldn't help grinning. He was one of the few people that knew Wedge had a smuggler's colorful vocabulary, which was rarely used because of the man's leadership responsibilities. Now, his Correllian friend had no such reservations.

Finally, there was a thump on the line, and they could hear rustled noises and more grumbles. Luke could sense all personnel within a twenty foot radius give the drama unfolding on the vidscreen their full attention...while pretending to attend to their tasks, of course. As trained intelligence operatives, they were doing a very good job of just that.

"OK, Luke, you're about to see one hell of an ugly face."

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Wedge. You don't look half bad in those wanted posters."

"Very funny, Skywalker. Here it comes-"

The screen flashed to life again, and several operatives nearby made little exclamations, turning to murmer with each other. Luke decided that Wedge's description had been pretty apt. He had somehow managed to prop a dead stormtrooper up into his seat, the white armored figure slumped back with its arms hanging listlessly. The helmet was off, obviously, and the clone was not a handsome man in death, and probably had not looked much better in life. The slack jaw was too thick, he had heavy jowls, a bulbous nose, a protruding forehead, and thin stringy blond hair. The glazed eyes stared blankly forward.

"Well, that is definitely an interesting cloning choice," Kyp observed, marking his first words of the afternoon.

As they watched, the body began slowly to fall forward, blood and drool dangling out of its mouth. "Oops, sorry about that-" The forehead thunked into the vid-cam, and a few lines of static ran up the screen. An orange-garbed arm appeared to yank the body back, but the body fell backwards too fast it began to list to one side. "Sithspit-" the body disappeared from the screen with a loud thud.

Wedge's friendly face, which had appeared on one side of the vid-screen, winced at the sound. "Sorry. Was that enough of a look for you?"

Cracken, who had come to stand next to Luke during the display, nodded in affirmation. "That'll do."

Wedge nodded, and when he began reaching for the video controls, he stopped when Cracken, Iella, and Luke shouted "No!" in perfect unison.

Wedge blinked up at the screen, and Cracken glared at it. "Keep the vid setting on, Commander. That's an order."

Wedge looked rather unhappy, but complied. "Yes, sir."

The pilot sat down gingerly in the chair just vacated by the dead clone. When he had rather blearily refocused on the screen, he noticed Luke and grinned. "You really are here! I thought you were still at the Maw, Luke!"

Luke grinned back at his friend. "I got bored. Master Jedi don't get to blow things up very often."

"You should rejoin the Rogues. That's about all we do nowadays."

"Did we ever do anything else?"

Wedge looked deep in thought, then looked back in amusement. "No."

"Antilles, you look like a starfighter landed on you." Cracken meant it, too. The left side of the man's face was matted in blood, and his flight uniform had almost as much red as it did orange. Wedge was also favoring his left side, though he was trying hard not to show it.

Cracken and Kyp and everyone looked at Luke in surprise when he couldn't hold in a snicker. Wedge glared too, confused. "What's so funny, Skywalker?"

"You look like one of those heros in a really bad Imperial melodrama."

Wedge sighed. "I was trying to avoid that..."

-----------------------------------------------------

It was a new feeling, knowing you were going to die. Wedge was surprised to feel that it also came with an incredible sense of freedom. For years, he had literally pushed himself in the very path of death; those early desperate battles with the Alliance had been just that: desperate, and by all chances, he knew he should be dead a hundred times over. Most everyone else was. People he felt were smarter than him, more charismatic that him, better looking than him, hell, he felt many were probably better pilots than him, had blown up in every way possible, but still he flitted free.

Knowing death could be seconds away made you numb to the reality; and you learned to ignore it. But when he was responsible for others, when risking his own life meant that good people might die with him, death once again became a terrifying monster, something to be avoided, something that settled as an awful sensation in the pit of your stomach.

Now, he faced death with no-one around to suffer the side-effects. Just him. The lack of choice in his survival completely eliminated the responsibility of keeping friends, innocents, and himself safe. As he typed away at the computer, he actually smiled.

It would be alright if he died right now. He'd had a good life, and he'd pulled off some pretty great stunts. He regretted everyone he had lead to their deaths, but he had done well in keeping others alive. No one was dependent on him. His close friends all had others to lean on if they wanted to mope about his death. He'd paid his dues to Booster and Mirax for all they'd done for him.

Who else did he have unfinished business with? He had always purposely distanced himself from all but a few friends, and it was those friends, Tycho, Wes, and Hobbie being at the top of the list, that he worried the most about. But then again, they were all hardened soldiers, and they had a quiet, unspoken agreement. When one of them would die, it was with the trust that his friends would remember the good times and move on. It was something they'd all had to do dozens of times before.

A tiny piece of ceiling bounced off the keyboard, and he blinked at it. It was somehow a bit funny. Raining ceiling? He could see someone writing that into the voice-over narration of his melodrama death scene, camera zooming out from some giant explosion- 'Commander Antilles, the second leader of Rogue Squadron, died an honorable death as the evil shards of a dead empire rained down around him in a flurry of ceiling tiles- And now, the exciting life and death of Corran Horn, a two-part series-'

"Commander Antilles? This is special operative Wessiri."

Wedge had frozen the second he recognized her voice, and he looked up with an expression of befuddled surprise. Which almost immediately turned into a big smile.

"Iella!" He tried to cover how happy he was to see her when he saw her mask of professionalism was in place. It wasn't hard to do, as his was just as practiced. "What can I do for you?"

"Two things, Commander. First, you can recheck the construction log in storage drive C394 for anything more on the cloning tanks. We've just beamed an entry code to your console." Wedge found that he was staring at her, and he shook himself out of it, nodded. She really was beautiful.

"Alright, that's no problem. Should I just stream it all up, or go through it manually?"

"Both, if you can. The stream should be able to handle a little extra data."

Wedge typed away in concentration until he had pulled the correct entry screen up. He reached up to reset some of the controls, and then gasped and gritted his teeth when it stretched the wound in his side. Fighting through the pain, he shoved a bit farther to hit the button, and tried to sit back with as much composure as possible. He considered turning the vid-cam setting off again, but decided against it when he looked up and saw Iella looking back at him. She seemed to be trying very hard not to say something.

He punched another button and met her eyes, feeling slightly light-headed. "It's streaming. Now what was the other thing I could do for you?"

"Get out." Wedge stared at her in complete surprise. "Just, try to get out, Wedge. Please." Iella was leaning into the screen and speaking in a near whisper. Her mask was completely gone, and he could see the fear on her face.

"Iella..."

"Do it for me, Wedge. Please, just start walking."

Something constricted his throat, and he still just looked at her, not knowing what to say. Finally, he just shook his head, slowly, his eyes showing pain, and regret, and grief.

He was going to lose Iella. Suddenly, dying didn't seem as nice as it had been just a few minutes before.

The images on both ends shook and began to run with static as the next set of explosions hit, and then they flashed into darkness as the final self-destruct cycle took out the broadcast.

Iella could look over at another screen and see the heat sensor grid displaying the final destruction of the base that held the man she loved.

--------------------------

Luke felt the explosion throught the Force and sprinted from where he was on the bridge for the intelligence room, leaving Kyp in the middle of sentence. No. Wedge wasn't just his friend, he was a pivotal figure in the New Republic, more so than anyone, superiors or subordinates, probably realized...but now Wedge Antilles was dead. He reached the console with the heavy truth settling around his feet. Iella Wessiri was leaning on her hands on Orkwall's station, the young Calamari standing off to one side, looking unsure of himself. Luke walked straight up to her and put his arm around her shoulders, and squeezed her into a hug. It was as much for him as it was for her. He felt and heard Cracken and Kyp walk up behind them.

Cracken's voice was solemn and regretful as he spoke. "We're leaving for hyperspace as soon as the fighters have returned." He saw Iella nod her head, and continued, clearing his throat. "I know Antilles was close to both of you, and I'm sorry for your loss." It wasn't condescending or ironic, just but a heartfelt condolence from a hardened warrior, and one who had seen too much death in his own time. "There will be time for proper grieving soon. Now, we need to finish the work that Antilles and Tonna started."

Her body posture one of complete grief, but her face calm and unswollen, Iella straightened and turned to look at Cracken. Luke let her go, and shoved back his own feelings. There was still work to be done. As they walked away, the entire control room was a hushed silence, honoring the dead.

Bungung turned as his communications officer waved for his attention. "Sir, message from the _Mon Remonda'_s intelligence unit. It looks like the Imperial fleet in the Yamaka system just entered hyperspace, en route for this system." Bungung chittered in exasperation.

"Have you told the general?" he asked the young man.

Said young man looked slightly bashful. "Doing so right now, sir."

Bungung looked back out of the bridge's viewport into the sparkling space before him. The crippled _Mon Remonda_ had almost left the planet's gravitational field and was preparing for hyperspace. Their other Star Destroyer, _Freedom's Victory,_ was in a stand off with her Imperial sister, their tiny fighter craft battling in a series of flashes and lines in between. The_ Executor_ was simply trying to block their exit from the system until reinforcements arrived. The Yamaka system was only an hour away via hyperspace. They were deep in Imperial territory, hence the short travel time. He wondered what spies Cracken had situated in the Yamaka system such that they could inform them of the fleet's departure. If, after such a strong communication burst, they were still alive.

Making a sudden decision, he twirled his small figure to face the bridge crew. "I want all starfighters returned to the ship, all spaced pilots brought in. No one gets left behind. We have half an hour to get into hyperspace."

A chorus of 'yes sirs' greeted him, and he turned back to the massive window. No doubt the general would be disappointed at their necessary departure; extra time to poke around the demolished base would have been precious. With the Empire coming in full force to defend this tiny planet, they would have to leave or face a massacre. But the fact that the Empire still wanted to protect a destroyed base, after all sensitive information had theoretically been taken or destroyed, was interesting. Bungung smiled, his big black eyes shining. He had a feeling that the New Republic would be back to this place, whether the Empire wanted them to or not.


	5. Briefing

Hobbie walked glumly into the briefing room and surveyed the other pilots. Both of the squadrons that had been under the late Commander Antilles' command were seated in the theater-styled chairs, many slumped in exhaustion, others nursing bacta patches and splints. None looked anything but upset and glum, and few were talking to each other. Hobbie knew that for once, he probably fit right in.

He could still taste the bacta in his mouth. His years of experience told him it had been from that cursed batch that came off Thyferra a couple years back. It wasn't the best of quality, and the aftertaste was particularly nasty. He thought again that maybe he should have taken the promotion from the Gernian bacta company. That had been some good quality stuff.

"Hobbie." He nodded at Tycho as the man walked by. The man looked like he'd been through hell, and Hobbie doubted he'd slept since they'd fled Yuman. Hobbie ducked around a few mingling pilots and sat down near the far wall, a place where he could survey others without much attention coming his own direction. He watched as Wes Janson entered the briefing room as well. When they'd docked and learned about Wedge, Wes had disappeared, and no one had seen him until now. After grimly surveying the room, he headed for the anonymity of the far wall, apparently thinking along the same lines as Hobbie. He seated his lithe mass a few seats down, and they exchanged a simple nod. Janson also looked like hell, Hobbie decided. He slumped listlessly, and his face was devoid of the sparkling mischief that usually brought both mirth and misery to his fellow pilots.

Tycho stood up from where he had been studying a datapad and walked to the front and center of the room. The room quieted as he attended to the holo console, and when he looked up, it fell in complete silence. It was a first for a pilot briefing, Hobbie decided.

Tycho cleared his throat and looked out over the crowd. He didn't look eager to start speaking, but he did. "I'll start off by saying that both the General and the ships' captains commend all of you for the bravery and good shooting you showed at Yuman. Keeping the ties in check was crucial for the mission, and in that we were successful." He paused, looking stony and collected to the inexperienced eye. Hobbie, who had known the blond-haired man for years, knew better.

"Not only did we succeed in getting the data we needed, we also discovered a possible weak link in the Empire's intelligence system. When we left the system, a fleet was en route to defend the base, so Yuman must have been more important to the imperials than a mere communications center." Hobbie watched as Tycho cast his eyes over his audience, and did so himself. Rogue Squadron and Blue squadron, the two X-wing units, and Talcon squadron, and A-wing unit, filled the chairs. Some were nodding in response to Tycho's words, others were simply staring off into space, their thoughts elsewhere.

Tycho looked down at his datapad. "Unfortunately, we suffered losses. Talcon Squadron, I'm sorry to report that Slunb Turnbian didn't survive bacta. After his A-wing exploded, he apparently suffered serious nerve damage. There was nothing the techs could do." He paused again, and silence filled the room. People already knew that the Sullustan hadn't made it, but that didn't make it easier. "His A-wing is repairable, so Talcon four won't be without a wingman for more than a few weeks, when Major Johnes screens recruits."

He looked down at his datapad again, using the notes on the screen as an excuse to gather his thoughts.

"Blue Squadron, we're happy to report that you all made it. However, four of you punched out, and three of those X-wings are irreparable. Also, Toni Gellanstrider won't be in fighting shape for at least two more weeks, so it's unlikely you'll be assigned any new missions until you're at least up to 10 fighters. You can expect some downtime." Some of the Blue Squadron pilots nodded, looking pleased. Hobbie swore he saw one middle-aged pilot pout at the news, however.

"Rogue Squadron, Hobbie, Fleur, and Gavin all punched out, but recovered nicely. Hobbie's X-wing blew up, of course, but the other two are repairable. Unfortunately," Tycho paused again, in what could be interpreted as a dramatic affectation. It wasn't, though. The next words were just hard to say. "Jorram Nelson didn't make it. We lost him planetside." Tycho stopped again, his hands gripping the side of the console so hard his knuckles were turning white. "Commander Antilles didn't make it either," his voice choked out.

Sithspit. A horrible swirl of wrenching emotions filled Hobbie's own stomach. He had been keeping it under control, trying to think about everything else, something you became quite good at when friends died on a monthly, sometimes weekly, basis. Tycho saying it out loud made it impossible to hide from anymore. He swallowed and glanced at Wes, who's face was a lifeless mask, jaw clenched.

Tycho was struggling to bring his personal emotions under control in the front, and after five more seconds he plowed on. "Rogue Squadron, I'll be taking over as Rogue Leader for now. Call numbers stay the same, but I'm now Rogue One. Blue Squadron and Talcon Squadron, wait for your private briefings for your own number changes. I have orders from high up that the three squadrons are no longer under the same command. Blues," he glanced down at the datapad again, "you're reassigned to _Mon Remonda_. Talcon, you're staying here. Rogues, we still don't know. Could be the Ithor moon, for all they'll tell me. Alright." He punched a button and a holo of the Yuman planet appeared to orbit in the center of the room.

"Thoughts on the mission, people? Observations? Bad jokes?" He stood to one side of the room to facilitate the discussion.

For a long time no one said anything, and the room stayed in a morose silence. Finally Corran Horn from Rogue Squadron raised his hand.

"Horn?"

"Yes sir. I was just wondering sir. I know that Commander Antilles'..." he swallowed, before continuing, "um, remains, are still on the planet. Sir, are we going to leave them there?"

"We left Nelson there, Lieutenant. You think there is anything left to retrieve?"

Corran shrugged. "Maybe not, Tych. I know it's not logical. I just...feel so bad leaving him there. At least Nelson we know didn't survive, because his X-wing blew. We can grieve him, sir, without...doubting ourselves. And even though there probably isn't a chance that Wedge is alive, we never got to see him go, or see his X-wing, or see a body-"

"Point taken, Horn." Tycho looked indescribeably tired. "Let me assure you, I feel the same way. If I had a choice, I would fly back and try to give Wedge a proper funeral. But frankly, the planet is now overrun with Imperials. It would be impossible."

Another Rogue raised her hand, Feylis Ardeyle. "Not impossible, sir, if you don't mind me saying. We could plan a mission to the planet, and then just avoid the space fleet and fly straight to the ground."

Tycho shook his head. "Risk an entire squadron to find the body of a dead man? Hero of the New Republic or not, Ardeyle, I have a hard time imagining Star Command giving that mission a green light."

"How do you know he's dead?" There was rustle as everyone in the room turned their heads to look at the young Blue Squadron pilot who had spoken up. Said pilot blinked, as if not expecting the sudden attention. "I mean, no one knows for sure that he didn't survive. Maybe he managed to get to safety before the base self-destructed. Maybe he disconnected the explosives around his area, or-"

"Tork, no one survives the self destruction of an entire military base." Tycho was looking at him with a strange hard look in his eyes. "I have firsthand information that the commander was in the base's com center when it exploded."

"Well, maybe that part of the building didn't explode! No, I mean it!" Noticing that Tycho was shooting lasers with his eyes at him, the young man followed up with "uh, sir. Sorry sir."

"It's alright, Tork. Just do us all a favor and don't mess with our heads right now. It's not appreciated," Tycho warned.

Tork looked abashed, and the room began turning their attention back to the front. "It's just that-"

Tycho began to look seriously angry. "Laklee..."

Tork spat his words out in gush. "Sir, it's just that Wedge Antilles survived two Death Stars, and I know Major Janson and Major Klivan were there with him on Hoth, and he's gotten out alive in every one of those Rogue Squadron missions, and I have a hard time believing that he blew up on some nowhere planet with no one finding his body, I just feel that somebody like him would have found a way to survive. Sir."

We're with you, kid, Hobbie found himself thinking. Wedge had always found a way out, no matter how dire the situation. A three meter gap in their defenses, a flutter in the enemy turbolaser fire, a last-second brilliant maneuver when everyone assumed that they were as good as dead...it was impossible to believe that this man hadn't squeaked out. Muttering and whispering now filled the room, but Tycho, Wes, Hobbie, and most of the Rogues stayed grim and silent.

Tycho sighed, and looked at the hopeful young man. "Tork, we appreciate your point. But sometimes, luck runs out. Mine will run out someday, probably before the luxury of retirement. Yours might, too. Wedge's ran out yesterday on a small planet in the Yuman system. As impossible as it seems, we have to let it go. Just like we let Jorram Nelson go, or Slunb Turnbian go, or Cracken's commando team go." He looked down at his feet, silent for a moment. Then he looked up. "Memorial service for all of our pilots is tommorrow night, main hanger. Get some sleep, everybody. You need it. Room dismissed."

Most of the room occupants stood to leave, talking with each other, heading off to bury their sorrows and celebrate their survival in glasses of gin, showers, and sleep. Hobbie didn't move, and when the room populace had shifted, he looked at the others who had hung around; Tycho, Wes, Corran, Feylis, Gavin.

They looked at each other. Tycho spoke first. "You all know I just lied, right?" He had sat down in the seat right of Wes in the makeshift circle they had formed.

Gavin smiled. "Of course we know. You're an awful liar, boss. So, when do we leave?"

A smile crossed Wes's ruggedly handsome face as well, without the usual mischief, but with a determination. "X-wings will be repaired in two days, according to our ever so friendly Twi'lek mechanic. She says she can get us a scrap retrieval mission near the edge of the gravitaional field, if we need it. She has a sudden, inexplicable need for used Gundanium scrap metal."

Tycho nodded, and his look of exhaustion flitted away, his mission look back in place. "I think we all know what to expect, but we also know that that doesn't change anything." He looked at the room. "You've no doubt accepted that if we do this, I might be court-marshalled, and Wes will be leading the Rogues."

Wes snorted, and Gavin shook his head. "Wrong, Celchu. If we do this, we ALL might be courtmarshalled. This isn't just your decision. Rogue Leader."

Tycho raised an eyebrow. "You've got a serious hero complex, Darklighter. You know that?"

"Coming from you, Major, that doesn't mean much," Gavin grinned at the older man.

Tycho shook his head in mock bewilderment, and Wes chuckled. "Well, Tych, how's it feel to be out-heroed? But since it looks like we all might be facing a nice little courtmarital here, I'm not too worried."

Corran smiled at him. "Are you ever?"

"When my massive income is threatened by the horrors of unemployment? Then I'm terrified. But in this case, I doubt Star Command would be happy if half of Roge Squadron retired early. Just a hunch. "

Hobbie decided it was time to break in. "All this legal talk is nice and all, but I'd like it if we figured out how to do this without me having to taste bacta in the next couple of days. I think the smell is becoming permanent."

Feylis nodded. "Yuman is probably swarming with imps at this point. We wouldn't be able to fly in with just our X-wings. They'd just raze us down. I think we'd be better off infiltrating."

"Iella!" Corran smacked his knee as the thought came to him. "Listen, Wedge is as important to her as he is to us. I bet she knows all about what's going on in the system, maybe she can even get us down there with some sort of Imperial identification."

Hobbie looked at him cautiously. "Are you sure she'd want to risk it? She's in Intelligence, not some snubfighter jockey. It's a different degree of punishment for breaking orders."

Corran returned Hobbie's look with one of simple confidence. "Sometimes friends come first. And look, I wouldn't do this for just anybody. I know that if I get kicked out of piloting, I might not be able to help as many people, or save as many lives. But Wedge..." He paused to let emotions flow past, as happened to all of them when they mentioned his name, "he gave more to the New Replublic than anyone I know. He deserves this. It's the least we can do for him, for everything he's done for everyone else."

They all sat in a determined silence, their minds as one. Wes spoke up next. "Do we tell the other Rogues?"

Tycho nodded. "They don't need to come along, of course, but they should know. We can trust all of them." Tycho rubbed his unshaven jawline, once again looking exhausted. "Corran, if you can get in touch with Iella today, that will give us time to plan something with her before the X-wings are flight ready. Feylis, I need you to start talking to the other Rogues- OW!"

Wes had kicked him hard in the shin. "What in the Sith's name was that for?!"

"You need to sleep, boss."

"Wedge didn't sleep."

"Yes he did. I made sure he slept." Wes nodded seriously to back up his statement. Tycho just glared at him, though a hint of curiousity showed up.

"Wes, no-one could make Wedge sleep if he was in mission mode. Even I couldn't."

"Well, then you never tried kicking him." Without preamble, Wes kicked again, this time hitting him in the kneecaps.

"SHITSPIT, Wes, that is NOT acceptable-" Despite Tycho looking about ready to throw a left hook to his face, Wes turned to grin at Feylis.

"It usually took three kicks to get the commander to go to bed," he whispered, "but I think I can get Celchu here to go in two-"

Tycho finished his ranting, not having heard Wes, and then stood up grumpily, favoring one leg, and swaying slightly from exhaustion. "Fine, Wes, you got me, I'm going to bed. We all are. Except for you, Corran. Contact Iella as soon as you can. We'll reconvene tomorrow."

Wes shot an 'I told you so' look to Feylis as Corran faked a pout. "Pick on the young guy, eh?"

Feylis grinned at him as they stood up. "I'm younger than you, Horn. They pick on you for your other qualities."

"Such is life," Corran said with a dramatic sigh. Then he looked more seriously at the group. "We have to move fast. The sooner the other Rogues know the better."

Tycho nodded. "Don't worry about that. The second they know it's for Wedge, this operation will be moving like wildfire."


	6. Secret Meetings

Luke knocked on the important looking door and entered when he heard Cracken's voice. The general was standing with his back slightly turned to the door, arms crossed, staring in concentration at a holoprojection. It looked like a projection of the base on Yuman. He turned and motioned for Luke to join him. "Master Skywalker, good to see you again. I had assumed you would leave the fleet as soon as we had the information you needed."

Luke left his cloak on a nearby chair and walked over to join the older man. "No, general, there is still much I'm curious about. Thank you for taking time to see me."

Cracken shook his head to deflect the thanks. "Don't think twice of it, Master Skywalker. A Jedi Master, and a hero of the Rebellion at that, always deserves time. So." He turned back to the holoprojection, though he angled himself so that he could still see Luke. "What is this meeting about?"

Luke crossed his own arms and looked at the red laser lines of the now-destroyed base. "I'd like to know everything you've discovered about the cloning system on Yuman. It is of utmost importance that the Jedi, as well as the New Replublic, know what the Empire is doing."

Cracken was looking at him with interest. Luke was getting a reading of sharpness and intelligence, and also a feeling that the man was being cautious. "I suppose you're picking up on what I'm feeling right now Skywalker. I also assume that it would be very hard for me to hide things from you."

Luke shook his head adamantly. "Reading the minds of those who don't want their minds read is something a Sith, not a Jedi, would do. I pick up on your basic emotions, yes, and while I have the ability to read your thoughts and memories, it is not something a Jedi Master does. Your secrets are your secrets, general." He gave the general a strong look. "Though I hope you view me enough as a comrade that you would entrust me with some of those secrets."

The general looked pleased, and harrumphed. "Understood." He motioned at two chairs near his desk, and they both walked over and took a seat. "But first, Master Skywalker, I would very much like your impressions on the situation that unfolded on Yuman. Did you sense anything unusual through the Force?"

Luke held back a smile. The general was wily to the core, which was the reason he was a general, and director of intelligence, in the first place. "Very well. Clones don't necessarily send off a different force aura than normal people, except that their minds are often younger, more brainwashed, and simpler. Also, they lack many of the normal thought patterns that normal people have because they were rushed though their mental growth periods. In short, I would have to be concentrating on an individual mind to detect a if they were a clone, and even then, it isn't foolproof, especially with non-humans. So I failed to detect if there were clones attempting to leave the system."

Cracken leaned back in his chair and looked grumpy. "No imperials at all attempted to leave the system. We're the ones who ran with our tails on fire. So you didn't detect any anamolies among any of the imperials, not even the fighter pilots near the ship?"

Luke shook his head. "No. The fighter pilots, as far as I could tell, were normal trained tie-jockies. Inexperienced, but normal. Which is why Wedge's," damn, he faltered on the name, swallowed, and shoved the sudden grief down again, "em, discovery, is so surprising. While we would assume the local imps would be bolstering their forces with clones, I picked out none our general sector." He paused. "Not that my senses were fool-proof, of course."

"Durron detected nothing interesting, either?" The general rubbed his chin.

Luke sighed. Kyp had been hard to read, as he usually was. "No. Now, that's all I could pick out. My gut sense is that they have been running a cloning operation for some time under that communications plant, and that they were training their clones to master certain jobs."

Cracken nodded. "you are correct in that. Now you do realize that you are no longer a member of the New Republic, though you are an ally, and so I don't have the power to give you information that might damage our chances there. I can give you some information, knowing who you are, and because of your help on the planet, but this is an extremely unusual situation."

Luke almost sighed again, this time holding back frustration as well. Bureaucracy. And Intelligence people. "Tell me as much as you can, general. Cloning is something that directly influences the Jedi. Remember that we are ideal people to clone for the Empire. I don't want an army of cloned Jedi running around, and if you can help me make sure that doesn't happen, than we are both in a better place."

"Understood. We ran checks on the face that Antilles beamed up before we left the system. He wasn't in any of our records. However, our physiognomy specialist and geneticist have a suspicion that he may come from the surrounding area. We also have good informatoin that they have other lines of clones."

Luke perked up at that. 'Information' in intelligence jargon always meant an informer or an infiltrated agent. "You have someone on the planet, then?"

Cracken glared. "I said we have _information_. Don't read anything into that, Skywalker."

Wishful thinking on your part, General. Time to start fishing. "Do you have any information on who the other clones are based off of?"

The general continued to glour. "As far as we are concerned, none of them are based off people with powers in the Force. Remember, Master Skywalker, about our agreement. We only need the Academy's involvement if the Imperials have begun to look for and clone jedi. Until we have proof of that, it is still solely a New Fepublic Intelligence issue. And you can trust that as soon as we have detected suspicious clones, we will alert you."

Luke was getting a strong vibe that more information would not be forthcoming. Time to take his leave. "I remember our arrangement, General." He stood up and picked up his cloak, extending a hand to shake with the rising man.

"One final question," he said, as he walked towards the door. "It's obvious that the imps were watching over the base from the nearby system. I would like to know your analysis on why they didn't just guard the planet directly."

Cracken smiled. "It's simple. They know my people are good. We have all the major fleets and bases marked out over Imperial space. If they had any significant hardware on that planet, we would have known about it. To protect the planet, they made it an uninteresting communications base. When we found out it was actually THE communications base, it was due to a lucky break, as we had no reason to suspect otherwise. Little comunication actually went out from the planet; it was the communications development planet, and they shipped the code to ships and those ships would then reroute the beams to other locations, not giving this base away. If we had known about the base, it would have ceased to be useful for a variety of purposes. Like cloning. But I assume you basically surmised this yourself. You're clever Skywalker. You want to know what I think and understand, to predict my moves. Have I stayed up with you, old man that I am?"

Luke grinned back. "General, you're as sharp as they come. Thank you again, and I still expect to hear from you the moment you learn significant information about the clones. We might have links to track down if they are related to force-users." Luke knew Cracken probably wouldn't take him up on that, but the older man nodded anyway. "And, I lied, general. One more question."

"There's always one more. Shoot."

"Do you have any plans to send a team down there? If you do, I would like a Jedi to go with them. Or, I would like to go myself."

"You're an incredible man, Luke Skywalker. I'll consider, but no promises. And no promises about a planetbound team. If I did send one, I admit, a Jedi would be useful."

"I'm glad you see it that way." Luke nodded at Cracken, before pulling up his dark brown hood. "Good day General." Cracken saluted, and walked him to the door.

"May the Force be with you."

----------------------

Well, that hadn't gone anywhere. Luke felt frustrated as he walked down the halls leading away from Crackens central office. The man was as secretive as a Yvork. Luke had held back on asking the questions that had also been pressing his mind. Like, would that commando team be retrieving the bodies of the dead. The body, if there was one, of Wedge.

Luke hadn't felt like Wedge had died. Call it a six sense, hope, the force, or his mind playing tricks on him in his slightly repressed grief, but he couldn't shake the feeling that that chapter wasn't closed. Not until there was a funeral. Not until they had found something of him. Not until it was obvious as day that his old ally was gone.

As he stepped into a turbolift, taking his place beside a very tired, and suddenly very excited mechanic, Luke planned out the next few hours. He had a sneaking suspicion that there was someone else in Intelligence that felt the same way about the situation as he did, and that person might prove to be an invaluable ally.

------------------------

"Skywalker?" Iella slipped out from behind the crowd, looked around confidently, just oozing caution and hyper-awareness to Luke's jedi-trained senses. She faked a casual smile and slid into the dark booth with him. Once out of view from passerbies, the smile changed into a look of suspiciousness and caution. "You wanted to see me in private. This is best I could do, and I can only ensure it's security for a short time. What do you need that the rest of intelligence can't know?"

"Geez, you get right to the point." There was no hero-worship from this woman. "But before I get to that point, I wanted to ask you something. You're friends with Corran Horn, correct?"

The woman nodded curtly, and then cocked an eyebrow. "Is this about Corran? I'm tired of saving his fighter jockey ass, if it is. Mirax does that now."

Luke couldn't help but grin, which didn't make the woman on the other side of the table much happier. He could see why Wedge liked her. _Had_ like her. Which brought him right back on target. He leaned forward. "Listen, I need help. I don't know exactly how to put this into words, but...I'm not exactly a smooth politician."

Iella smiled. Seeing a Jedi Master admit imperfections must have been amusing, Luke supposed. "You're a pilot, not a politician. I get your type quite well, Master Skywalker. And I'm quite good at translating through their communicative and social quirks. Go right ahead, and make it fast, please. I have a job to do."

"Yes, ma'am. Look, I know Cracken has you working on the cloning situation on Yuman. And..." He paused, and looked around at the slightly dirty both. It looked like it hadn't been well-scrubbed in years. "You're sure this place is clean? I mean, of listening bugs."

Iella looked professionally offended.

"Sorry, of course it is. I forget who I'm working with. Look, Cracken doesn't want me involved in the investigatoin at all, and he is giving me no information. However, Cracken is ignoring the fact that this particular situation is siginficant to more than the New Replublic, and that I'm involved whether he wants me to be or not. Even if that means finding a way to get planetside without any New Replublic support." He watched as Iella narrowed her eyes, thinking.

"Jedi or no, Master Skywalker, it's an imp rat nest down there right now. You can't charge in with an Xwing and a lightsaber. If you'll excuse the rudeness," she added.

Luke laughed. "I'm guessing that your one contact with the Jedi Order is Corran Horn, correct? Correct. Horn often has a more straightforward way of dealing with these situations than I've found are necessary. They often work brilliantly in the end, but if I go planetside, it will be sneakier than that. However, I would prefer not having to go alone, without the involvement of the New Republic Intelligence department."

"You want Cracken to give you an infiltration team?" Her sharp eyes narrowed. "As a warning, I know how the general works, and he won't take to it." Iella pretended to be examining the nails on her left hand. They had silvery polish, Luke noticed. It went well with her hair color and eyes.

"I know he won't. He also won't give me the intelligence I need to make a successful mission of it. That is why I'm coming to you." Luke worked hard to match her stare, as she pinned him with her eyes. Knowing Corran must have made the woman fearless of the Jedi; she had guts.

"You want me to disobey Cracken and leak you information."

"Yes."

"I could be fired. Courtmarshalled."

"Yes, you could."

"I could legally be tried for treason. You are asking me to be tried for treason?"

"Yes, I am." Iella just stared at him. Luke hoped he looked as serious as he felt.

"So tell me," she demanded, "just what motivator you have to try and inspire me to turn my back on my own organization. Or are you thinking I'll risk my loyalty just because you are a famous Jedi master? Don't get me wrong, Master Skywalker, I admire everything you've done and what you mean to the New Republic, but I don't make a habit out of disobeying commanding officers, not even for you."

"Which is probably part of why Wedge liked you," Luke said quietly. "Loyal to the end, just like he was."

Iella sat back like she'd been punched in the gut. He could feel her complete shock, registration of what he'd said, and then a moment of incredible grief covered almost instantly by anger. She leaned forward and Luke almost drew back from the raw, hurt rage on her face. "Don't...you...dare."

Luke took another deep breath. This was definitely why he left politics for the other side of his family. "Iella, I'm sorry to bring it up. Wedge was a very good friend of mine. And..." he paused, trying to clear up emotions and thought. "It would seem illogical to Cracken to send a mission to that planet just to scour for one dead man. Especially when men are dying all over. I want to go back and learn about the cloning facility before the empire knows that we know about it. I also want to lay Wedge Antilles to rest."

He looked into her now closed expression; she had leaned back so that it was mainly covered in shadow. He sighed. "I don't know if that means recovering his body, or going to the place where he died, or just leaving his helmet there. But I can't rest easy knowing that my friend was left behind, alone, on a planet full of imperials. I want to do something to repay him for everything he's done for me. And I'm asking your help in doing that."

Iella was quiet for a long time, several minutes. Luke couldn't fully see her face, but he could hear her slightly erratic breathing. A waiter droid popped into their booth and asked obnoxiously if they wanted anything to drink, but Luke just handed it a credit for a tip and motioned for it to leave them alone. It grumbled as it walked off to the next bar customers.

Finally Iella leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. "I'm in. I suppose Rogue Squadron will be in, too."

Trying not to let the sudden feeling of triumph show on his face, Luke nodded gravely, as a Jedi Master should. "I'm assuming so as well. Corran doesn't know that I'm with the fleet, but I plan on contacting him as soon I can find out where he is. And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure I don't step on Cracken's toes." he watched her for a moment. He could practically see the wheels turning in her skull. "Thoughts?"

The woman shook her head. "Not now. We need to be going. I assume you know enough about intelligence not to expose me to the elements."

"I've learned a little bit from Horn. I'm good at being sneaky." Luke smiled. "My private comlink number is-"

"No!" Luke stopped in surprise as Iella held up her hand. "I'm an Intelligence Agent. One of the best. I know how to contact you. More important is that you know how to contact me."

"You have access to my private comlink number." Luke frowned. "Cracken shouldn't know that. I change it on a monthly basis."

Iella shrugged. "Not often enough, apparently. Do you have a good memory? I have a thirteen digit call-number that you should be able to contact me at, securely, but only for bursts of up to 60 k's or five minutes. Ready?"

As Luke wrote the numbers into memory, he wondered how Corran had managed to keep up with this woman. Maybe it was a Correllian thing.

-------------------------------------

As Iella walked away, it occured to her that perhaps the best way to avoid disobeying orders was to change those orders. She sat on a nice bench in one of the common areas for a good half an hour and simply thought. Afterwards, she tried to steel her frayed nerves and walked towards Cracken's office.

------------------------------------------

The General blinked. "Agent Wessiri, right now I don't feel that an infiltration team is necessary. We'd be going in almost blind, and with no ground contacts."

"We'd have one, sir, and I think that would be enough." Iella was standing rigidly at attention in front of his desk, hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, dressed in the civilian styled outfit that lower ranking members of the New Republic wore on their down time. "Tonas, sir. He's proved himself to be a reliable contact up to this point, sir, and I feel he could brief us sufficiently so that we could enter the system safely and unnoticed."

Cracken's chair squeaked in protest as he leaned back, thinking. "You've read his most recent report, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you'll have noticed that he's increasingly paranoid about detection. They may be narrowing in on him, and if we continue to push our communications with him we might lose him completely, get him killed or spooked."

"That's why I say we use the contact as soon as possible, before it is compromised," Iella returned.

"Let's say I did decide to send a team to the planet. If you were in charge, Agent Wessiri, what would this team do, exactly?" he asked.

"For one, it would allow us to rescue Tonas before he's found out. Two, it would allow us to map the area, gain as much intelligence as possible-"

"I agree, of course. I was planning on sending a team down once we've finished decoding the information we've recieved. Once they lay off on security, we should be able to infiltrate with relative ease. I had been planning on sending Agent Gonarl as lead. I must admit, Agent, I'm surprised by your eagerness to lead a ground mission on this planet. You are doing an excellent job in decoding and communications."

"Sir, the more I understand the situation, the more I feel it would be imperative to get a ground team on the planet as soon as possible," Iella said adamantly.

Cracken still looked unconvinced. "Gonarl is more experienced in group infiltration. I don't believe you've ever headed or organized a large group mission, Wessiri. But I will consider your request. I will tell you over the next couple of weeks, when the mission is ready to proceed." He lifted his eyebrows in surprise when Iella shook her head adamantly.

"Thank you sir, but I would like to begin organizing this mission within the next two days, general."

"You're joking."

"No, sir. I'd like to be able to recruit from within Intelligence, and perhaps from within Star Command as well. I can have a complete outline of the mission plan by tomorrow, sir." The woman stood as straight as before, chin raised, looking confident and fearless, absolutely sure of herself.

Cracken suddenly felt old again. Where these young people got all their drive and energy, he had no idea. He supposed he'd had it at one point. He sighed. Hampering that enthusiasm probably wasn't the best way for an old man to utilize the skills of his people. His agent was requesting, demanding something that he was used to doling out on his own initiative. Well, he'd see how she did with it. But first, he'd make her squirm. "I'll consider your request, Agent Wessiri. I'll text you by tonight with my decision." He nodded at her, signalling her dismissal. Her face still not betraying a particular emotional response, she saluted crisply and quietly left the room, the door closing with a soft swoosh.

He sighed again and typed her 'code-green' text message right then and there, setting it on a timed send-off so it wouldn't reach her address until later that night. Maybe that would make ensure she didn't get cocky.


	7. Plourr

The next morning, the news of Wedge's death had been filtered to various persons that the New Republic deemed significant to attend his private funeral. It was an old tradition in Star Command to hold small, military-only services for their downed men and women, and in that tradition, this particular funeral would be attended only by former comrades. As such, the death of Commander Antilles was already buzzing news in the gossip chains of the military, but nothing had been officially stated on a larger level. Personnel were being warned to keep the issue quiet, for intelligence purposes.

No doubt the propaganda department of the would be having a pompous and overblown hero's sendoff later, but they would hold it off until major news networks had broken the story and forced them to make it public.

The first ship to arrive was a small craft from the planet Eiattu.

----------------------------------

In the hanger they watched as Plourr, elegant, beautiful, and commanding, gracefully shook hands with the various important personnel of the _Mon Remonda_. Captain Bungung looked star-struck, and the few diplomats and squadron leaders practically waited in line to shake her hand.

Tycho stood to the side of a door about fifty feet away, arms crossed, watching with a slight smile of bemusement. Wes wandered over to stand slightly behind him and watched the display.

The man shook his head in disbelief. "I still can't believe that's Plourr Ilo."

"Isplourddacartha, Wes. There's a difference. And you still can't cross her, I'll bet."

"Yeah. But Plourr into politics? That's like sending me into diplomacy."

"That's a terrifying thought."

The hanger- ons eventually dispersed, and Plourr looked over and caught sight of the two Rogues. Tycho gave a small wave, and then blanched. Plourr's diplomatic grace had disappeared as she began striding towards them like an ATT, an aid scurrying into double-step to keep up.

Wes surreptitously took a step farther behind Tycho. "Uh, oh. I thought she was a diplomat now."

"And I thought she'd be happy to see us?" Tycho turned to glare worriedly at Wes in the brief moments they had before her arrival. "Did you do anything? I know you did. What did you do."

Wes appeared to think hard, looking confused. "I sent her a letter once, but that was over two years ago. You think she remembers that?"

They turned around and blinked at the old comrade who had appeared in their faces. Tycho regained composure. "Hey Plourr."

"Hey Tycho." She glared at her aid, who withered. "Go do something for a couple hours." The aid nodded and began walking off, glancing behind her several times in confusion.

Plourr shoved Tycho and Wes back through the door and started walking into the depths of the ship where there would be no diplomats to recognize her. Wes and Tycho just followed. Finally, she stopped and spun around, and looked about ready to say something.

Tycho waited quietly.

"He's not dead."

Tycho stared in complete shock, his jaw moving slightly. "WHAT? How do you know? Did you get word from somebody? Are you sure?"

Plourr suddenly looked like a deer in the headlights. "Because he's Wedge."

A shadow darkened Celchu's face. "What do you mean 'because he's Wedge'."

"Listen Celchu, I didn't mean it literally. I don't KNOW if he's dead or alive, I just know he can't be dead because he's goddamn Wedge Antilles." Plourr looked furious, probably deeply, deeply embarrassed to have raised her friend's hopes over something not true.

Tycho went stony faced.

Wes watched with his jaw hanging as Plourr's taut expression changed and her mask melted off. She looked near tears, furious, like an animal trapped in a corner. Her voice was a vicious whisper. "He can't be dead, Tycho." She practically snarled. "If the Captain died on some nowhere sith-forsaken dung-heap of a planet in a farking ground based explosion...and who the hell was there with him, Celchu? Where was his wingmate?"

Tycho's face mimicked hers. "Don't even go there, Plourr. Don't you even farking go there, alright? How do think I feel, huh?"

Wes stared at them, as their voices had risen from way beyond whispers, and they were gesticulating passionately.

"I heard tell that you left him, Celchu. How the hell could you leave Wedge? What the hell were-"

"I had no CHOICE, Plourr! We had to contact the cruisers and tell them to get into position; if me or Hobbie had been shot down, we needed the other one to-"

"You LEFT him there, Celchu, ALONE. What sort of wingmate-"

"You think I WANTED to leave him? Wedge is my best farking friend, you idiot, you think I wanted to leave him there, on that shit-hole planet-"

"YOU LEFT HIM, CELCHU, It's YOUR goddamn fault he's dead, you should have stayed there with him or..." Wes was now frozen in place, watching as his two friends neared the point of physical blows. But then Plourr paused, and she looked well beyond the verge of sobbing. Not a single tear in her face, of course, but if she had been anyone but Plourr,...

Tycho didn't have the same success. Suddenly leaning back against a wall, he took a shuddering breath. "I know, Plourr." He was speaking quietly. "I left him. What sort of awful partner leaves their wingmate. It IS my fault." Wes continued to watch as moisture made it's way down one of Tycho's cheeks, which the man wiped away furiously.

"Oh damn..." Plourr leaned against the same wall, all the fight gone out of her. They had somehow found themselves in a small corridor, for maintenance people, out of the way of everybody. Not caring if her ornate dress got covered in grease, she sat down heavily. Tycho followed, scrubbing at his face, and Wes leaned down against the wall opposite, head hanging, scared to make eye contact with either of them.

"I'm so sorry Plourr."

Plourr didn't asnwer, biting her lower lip in a massive effort to gain control of her own emotions. She looked over at Tycho, the man who never cried, who was now staring blankly at the wall across from him.

"No, Tych, I'm sorry. Sithspit, I wish I was better at this stuff. I just got so upset I didn't know what to do except get mad. I shouldn't have gotten mad at you."

She leaned on her crossed knees and wiped her hand across her scalp. "It's not your fault, you big buffooning moron. Of course it's not your fault."

Tycho didn't answer, and Plourr kept talking.

"It's the imps fault. I know that. It's just the idea that it was a fucking explosion...I don't know who to go after, who to take down for that. I could attack that whole planet, just make every one of those miserable life forms suffer..."

Wes broke in. "That wouldn't bring him back, though."

Plour stared at him, her jaw clenched, eyes suspiciously moist. She looked down. "I know."

They all sat there for a long time, in silence. They could hear something dripping.

Finally, calmed down enough to talk, Plourr shifted. "After my family died, you know, you guys were the only family I really had. Wedge..." she paused and wiped her sleeve across her face. "He was like a big brother."

Tycho nodded. "You guys were my family too. Without Wedge, I don't think we could have found that."

Another long silence, as they each sat with their own grief. Wes sniffed.

"Let's go get drunk. Think about something else." Wes looked at them with a hint of his old mischief. Tycho stared at him like a kid just waiting to be told what to do, and Plourr raised an eyebrow.

"There's a whole bunch of A-wing jockies in the starboard cantina. They think they're hot stuff. I say after a few gins, we take them down a knotch, eh?"

A small smile appeared on Plourr's lips. "I can use a chair?"

Wes nodded. "You can use a chair. You know, we're all still here. We don't have Wedge, but we're still the Rogues."

Moisture finally overwhelmed Plourr's eyelids, and she started to get up, wiping off the tear as the small smile turned into a large one. "I think you're right. We'll drink to Wedge."

She reached down and helped pull Tycho to his feet. Tycho nodded. "I'm up for that."

"Good," Wes quirked a smile. " Now if you'll follow me..." he started walking towards the light at the other end of the corridor, "I think we have some havoc to cause."

Plourr grinned, and Tycho shook his head. "Children. At least you don't have your blasters on you...wait Plourr? You did leave your holdup blaster with the checkin people, right? Plourr? Hey, Plourr!"

Plourr turned and grinned maniacally as she turned the corner. "Of course I still have it. But don't worry...I like fists better."

"Plourr, as your commanding officer, I demand you hand over your blaster."

Their voices were growing more distant as they made their way back to the hustle and bustle of the ship.

"You aren't my commanding officer Celchu. I can do what I want."

"Fine, then listen to me as the voice of reason."

"Since when has your voice been reasonable?"

"Since always."

"Since never."

"I'm reasonable."

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am!"

"Don't make me punch you in the gut, Celchu."

"You're right. The fact that I'm carrying on this conversation at all makes me rather unreasonable."

"Damn straight it does."

"Who asked you, Wes?"

------------

Hobbie and Plourr had a hilarious reunion, one that had even Tycho smiling and ended with Hobbie desperately fighting his way out of a classic headhold. All four of the Rogue's were now seated at a table in the seedy ship's cantina.

Hobbie glared over his glass of lomin-ale at Plourr for the umpteenth time and rubbed his hand over his scalp. "You really think my hairline is receding?"

"I didn't say that, Hobbie. I said your hair looks different."

"But the cut is the same. Same color. Why would you say it was different if my hairline wasn't receding?"

Plourr, who had knicked a mechanics suit to wear over her dress to blend in better, grinned at him. "I'm sure you can still pick up unwary Bothans, Hobbie. Quit whining."

"So you think it is receding then." Hobbie looked inconsolably glum, and slumped back in his seat. "I'm doomed. I'll never get another date."

Tycho was feeling a little bit better, possibly because of the alcohol, but he was finding it extremely difficult to sit with the original Rogues in their natural setting without their core member.

As he stared blankly at his glass, Wes took notice and snorted. "We're supposed to be thinking about other things, Tycho. Here, get drunk faster." He reached over to pour more ale from the pitcher into Tycho's glass. Tycho didn't even seem to take notice, though after taking another blank sip, he voiced what was on his mind, on all of their minds.

"I miss Wedge."

All four of them now turned their attention to their mugs, poking at them, not making eye contact.

Plourr clenched her jaw. "So...you never found a body?"

Wes shook his head. "No way to. The entire planet is overrun with Imperials, and on top of that, the base completely self-destructed." Wes smiled. "Although I hear it was a spectacular explosion. Biggest since the Death Star. No doubt that might placate Wedge's ego a bit."

Hobbie smiled slightly and turned sad eyes to Tycho. "Are you really putting 'stupid egoist' on his grave?"

"I'm thinking about it." Tycho glowered at no-one in particular. "That really was a dumbass stunt he pulled. And I told him I would, anyways."

Hobbie looked over again. "You mean that comment you made at the X-wings?"

Tycho shook his head. "I talked to him again, when he was in the base. I also told him his plan was a bad one."

Wes cocked an eyebrow. "You know most of his ideas are bad ones."

Tycho nodded. "He admitted that. But no matter how bad Wedge's plans are, they always managed to get us out alive."

"Which made them good plans," Plourr added.

"Which made them good plans," Tycho agreed, and swallowed. "I just wish I could still tell him that."

There was yet another silence, as they sat back and thought. Plourr started fiddling with her mug again.

Suddenly Hobbie sat up a little straighter, and stared straight at Plourr. Plourr responded by looking at him quizzically, as Hobbie seemed to be searching for words. After another moment, he spat them back.

"We're going back."

Plourr's eyes widened. "You're going back to Yuman?"

Hobbie nodded, and looking pleased with his short bomb of a sentence, sat back and waited for Tycho and Wes to continue the thread.

Tycho looked at her with hard eyes. "There's no way in hell we're leaving him there like that. We should have clearance to go back soon. We'll misinterpret orders if we have to."

Plourr leaned forward, a small smile of grim eagerness on her lips. "You know that now I'm in on it, you won't be able to get me out."

Wes finished off his ale with a massive gulp and then put it down, looking wry and Wes-like. "We kind of figured. Which-" he turned to direct a quick glare at Hobbie - "is why we were waiting for a good time to tell 'your highness', so she doesn't run off and attract attention to the whole thing. Remember, bugbite?"

Hobbie glared back. "You guys were taking forever."

Plourr now looked completely smug. "Don't worry, stupid." She snatched the ale jug as Wes reached for it and put it out of his reach. "I'm a politician now, remember? I can keep my mouth shut."

Tycho picked up the ale jug again from an unsuspecting Plourr and confiscated it to his right. "We'll need your resources Plourr."

"You've got it, bud. If you had an X-wing for me, I'll even fly in personally."

"We don't have the plan hammered out yet, but we thinking more of a backup craft for a base of operations. Maybe you could pull out of hyperspace just beyond the gravity field-" A glugging noise attracted their attention, and all three glared in unison when they noticed that Hobbie was drinking the remaining ale straight out of the pitcher.

Wes suddenly extended his hand. "Give me the rest."

"No. Why?" Wes reached out and just grabbed it. Then, reaching out to the table behind him, he grabbed an empty glass. Filling it up with ale, he put it at the place where, in historic times, Wedge would have been sitting. He then poured a bit more ale into each of their empty glasses and put the empty jug down in the center of the table with a strong thud.

"To Wedge. The best goddamn friend we ever had, and ever will have." He lifted his glass.

Tycho raised his own. "To the man with the worst plans."

Hobbie raised his. "And the best."

Plourr raised hers last. "And to one helluva good pilot."

In unison, they proclaimed, "To Wedge!" Then clinking their glasses and nodding to their absent friend's cup of ale, they drank their glasses dry.


	8. Belongings

The group broke up soon after, Plourr heading back to find her people, and the three current Rogues scattering in different directions. Wes started walking back to the officer quarters, his smile and forced humor completely gone. It had been only 8 hours travel time from Yuman, three hours on ship pre-briefing, an hour for the briefing, and since then, only 8 more hours. 20 hours since Yuman. The funeral was only three hours away. It wasn't much time for anything, especially not understanding the death of a friend. Wes felt like he needed months. Damn the funeral.

He felt a dead rage as he walked heavily through the gray halls, barely taking notice of the various personnel that were giving him a wide berth. He knew they were giving him space because of Wedge, which only made him angrier. Three hours. It was definitely enough time to do some more drinking in private, before he had to face people again. Not that the idea of sitting alone in a room was particularly uplifting, but avoiding the techs' awkwardly averted eyes was definitely a first priority.

Turning the corner and taking out his keycard, he pulled up short at the sight of a man standing outside the open door of his room. He approached cautiously. "Can I help you with something?"

The man, who was looking down at a datapad and clicking information in, noticed him, but evidently failed to notice the dangerous tone in Wes' voice. "Oh, hello, sir. I'm sorry for the inconvenience; intelligence sent us down to check the room for listening devices."

Wes failed to understand. "Listening devices? Who the hell would be listening to me?"

"We're under orders to scan the rooms of all personnel who were witnesses to, uh, I hate to bring it up, but-"

"Commander Antilles' death."

The intelligence goon looked embarrassed. "Yes, sir. The issue is supposed to be kept under wraps."

Wes felt like nothing else at that moment than punching the man in the face, walking into his room, and slamming the door shut behind him. The fact that he didn't was nothing short of a miracle in self-control. He took a deep breath. "Alright. And tell me, why the hell does Star Command want to keep it a secret?"

The man shrugged. "Beats me. Everyone I've talked to knows about it already. I think it's probably for the media. Keeping sludge-news from planting bugs, if you know what I mean."

Wes didn't respond in the affirmative, and the man finally seemed to notice the barely contained anger and frustration. He stared for moment, and then leaned over to peer through the door. "Hey Zapson, how much longer before we can close this room up?" Wes walked a couple more steps and looked inside. Another man, in the same type of uniform, was crouched with his upper body under the bed, his ass sticking in the air.

"I dunno," he called out. "Maybe half an hour? I found a funny residue on the far wall, I'm checking it out."

The first man looked at Wes apologetically. "I'm sorry about that. You can still go inside if you want; we'll stay out of your way."

"No, that's alright." Wes tried to fight the sudden depression he felt deadening his senses. "I'll go somewhere else." With saying anything more, he started to walk the other way down the hall. As he turned the corner, he glanced back and saw that Zapson had left the room and was whispering with the other man. The were both watching him go. A incredible feeling of alienation fell over him as he continued to walk. Many of the individuals he passed didn't recognize him; others, those who recognized his face, looked at him with wary interest, and acquaintances averted their eyes or tried an awkward, pitying smile. Wes just gritted his teeth and nodded back. He needed another bar, somewhere to get drunk where no one knew him. The officers' lounge was out, as was the main pilots lounge. Sithspit, where did that leave?

Just when he felt ready to give up and sit down on the floor in an exhausted pile of grief, he glanced over and saw another acquaintance; one of the older mechanics that worked under Koyi Komad. The rodian often specifically worked on his X-wing, and Wes had been extremely happy with a few of the rodian's customizations. Breaking the normal mode of distanced awkwardness, Chelko nodded and walked straight over.

"Mr. Janson? I heard about what happened. Actually, I saw, when not all the ships came back." Chelko looked directly at him with big red eyes. "Are you doing alright?"

The question caught Wes off guard. After staring back for a moment, he swallowed, and forced a shrug and a smile. "Yeah, I'm doing alright. This stuff happens. They're just a matter of time, anyway."

Chelko seemed to understand, and nodded. "If there is anything I can do to help you, with your ship, or anything else, please ask."

Wes nodded back in appreciation. "Will do." He took a few more steps forward, and then paused. "Actually, there is something. Is there somewhere around here I can get drunk? Without many people knowing me?"

Chelko let the request sink in, and though Wes couldn't really read his facial expressions, he swore the mechanic shared some sort of complete understanding. "Go down to the small repair hanger, take the corridor by the gutted Awing, and you'll see the mechanics cantina on your left. It should be pretty empty. Sometimes green pilots go in there, but usually just technical staff."

"Thanks." The Rodian nodded and went back to whatever he had been tallying before, and Wes set off.

Taking a different route than Wes, Hobbie glumly walked back to his own room, trying to avoid contact with people by sidling along walls and keeping his head lowered. With his gaze thus averted, at first he didn't notice that the door to Wedge Antilles' room was gaping open. He actually walked completely by it; before skidding to a halt and doing a massive doubletake. What the...he charged into the lit room to find two humans and a Quarren rifling through the shelves. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The three individuals, all in standard adminstrative uniform, stared back like they were looking at a crazy man. The Quarren came around the desk menacingly. "Do you have clearance to be in here? This room is closed to-"

"I asked a question. I want it answered." Hobbie's entire body was tense, and he hardly noticed that his right fist was clenched.

The Quarren gaped as much as his facial appendages would allow, and the human female stepped tentatively forward. "Are you, by any chance, Ltn. Derek Klivan?"

Hobbie's cold glare answered her question in the affirmative. "Um, sir, we're just following standard procedure and collecting the Commander's belongings. I'm sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to leave-"

"Out." Hobbie pointed at the door.

The Quarren puffed up his chest, and motioned for the other two to continue with their looting. "Lieutenant Klivan, calm down. We're collecting possessions for analysis and to send to any surviving kin-"

"He doesn't _have_ any family except for the Rogues! Get out! Now!"

Instead, the Quarren reached over and picked up a holo on the small desk in the center of room. "Sir-"

Hobbie gave up restraining himself and crossed the ten feet to snatch the picture from the humanoid's hand, crowding the man backward and practically snarling into his face. "I'll handle this. Tell your superiors that I outrank you. Put everything down now." The Quarren staggered backward and stared at Hobbie with wide eyes. Hobbie responded by walking a few more steps and grabbing a box of Wedge's meager belongings from a terrified human male, and shoving the man back towards the exit.

"Are you crazy, we're under direct orders-"

"OUT!"

The three stumbled towards the exit, dumping some more items on the desk and holding up their empty hands. The Quarren shoved the two out the door, and turned around to try and retain some of his masculine pride. "You know I'll need to report this. It's interference with orders. I could try and get you courtmarshalled-"

Hobbie charged menacingly towards the door with his hand raised, and the Quarren quickly swished it shut, disappearing and leaving the room in sudden silence. Hobbie, standing alone, found that he was breathing heavily and shaking. He just stood there for awhile, trying to calm down.

After a minute when he had regained his breath, he noticed that the holo was still dangling in his hand.

It was a grainy 2D picture of him, Wedge, Wes, Luke and Dak, all dressed in the white snow gear of Hoth and smiling furiously. Their faces were stung red, and they were standing proudly in front of one of the newly customized snowspeeders. The Wedge image had his arm around the Hobbie image's shoulder, pulling him into a hug. As Hobbie stared, the memory came tumbling back. He'd forgotten so much about Hoth, had purposely chosen to forget it because of the horror of those final hours. But before then, it had been youth, and brotherhood, and comrades. Was that what Wedge had remembered about it? His friends?

Hobbie couldn't help it; he sat down on one of the sparse room chairs and cried.

He did it quietly, almost silently, and when he had finally exhausted himself, he scrubbed his face off and looked around the room. It looked even emptier than it usually did, because the goons had already displaced many of the holos and memorabilia. Not that Hobbie had much stuff, either, but the idea of strangers rooting through his things, throwing them in a box, and sending them to some distantly related aunt made him sick to the stomach. How dare they. How dare they do that to his friend.

Suddenly energized, he grabbed the box they had left behind and started gathering Wedge's belongings. A few holos, which Hobbie didn't have the heart to look at too carefully; a small flimsy box from under the bed, a book of flimsy, a personal datapad. Some things he left; Wedge's numerous medals he knew were in his office, and Hobbie felt fewer qualms about leaving those to the looters. The idea of gold medals being sold in an auction was still sick, but not as bad as the idea of some distant relative showing off his personal photos to the media. His standard uniforms he left, but he shoved in Wedge's few changes of civilian clothing. He checked the bedside table - nothing. Desk drawers - nothing. Finally, Hobbie stood back and looked at the empty room. There was only one sign that it had ever been the temporary residence of his friend. Wedge had neglected to make his bed the day of the mission.

Hobbie couldn't take being in the room anymore, and he turned and rushed out without even checking to see if the coast was clear.

Tycho turned the corner to the officer quarters, fishing for his keycard in his cargo pockets, and came across a strange sight; the ever stoic Hobbie was standing in the middle of the deserted hallway, hugging a box for dear life and looking lost. Tycho's eyes narrowing in worry, he walked past the door of his own quarters to his friend. "Hobbie?" Hobbie made eye contact, but didn't say anything. He was obviously upset, and his eyes were red. "What happened?"

"They tried to take Wedge's stuff."

Tycho searched his friend's glowering face, before turning his attention to the box. Wedge's brown leather jacket was on the top, bunched and worn. His eyes then traveled to the closed sterile door of Wedge's empty room. Hobbie spoke again. "We need to put it somewhere. I scared them off for now, but I think they'll be coming back."

"Corran's room. Come on." Tycho grabbed Hobbie by the arm and urgently directed him away from the door, down past a few more rooms, and left down a side hall to where Corran's on-ship habitation was located. He pulled up and rang the doorbell, Hobbie standing next to him clinging to the box like he expected someone to come and take it away. "Corran can get it to Mirax and the Pulsar Skate. None of us are any good; we're all liable to search and seizure." Hobbie nodded as the door slid open, revealing a disheveled man in shorts and an old shirt. He didn't even get to open his mouth before Tycho explained. "Wedge's stuff."

Corran's expression changed in an instant as he noticed the box. "They tried to take it?"

"Uh huh." Hobbie looked nervously in the direction of some voices down the hall. "Can you get it to Mirax's ship?"

"Yeah, of course. She'll be here in an hour; she was doing some bartering near the system. Here, quick, get it inside." He reached out and Hobbie tried his best to deposit the awkwardly full box in his arms. "Alright, got it." Corran carried it a bit into the room, and then noticed that the two men were still standing at the door. They both looked a little lost, something that Corran would have found surreal if he hadn't felt the same himself. The idea of being alone suddenly didn't appeal to him, and the idea of the two fellow pilots wandering off alone wasn't appealing either. "Um, you want to come in?"

Hobbie shrugged miserably. "Sure."


	9. Bureaucracy

The two followed Corran inside, Tycho closing the door behind him. Hobbie sat down on the edge of Corran's unmade bed, and Tycho lowered himself into one of the cheap, streamlined chairs characteristic of all Home One living quarters. The man rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor. Corran carried the box over to Hobbie and, following some instinct, placed it back in the veteran pilot's lap. Hobbie nodded a tiny thanks, and gripped the container.

Corran stared at it with a strange expression of disbelief. "Is that...is that really all he had?"

Hobbie shrugged. "I left his medals and standard uniforms."

"Here..." Corran sat down next to Hobbie and lifted off the leather jacket stuffed on the top; Hobbie didn't object, which somehow made Corran feel the depth of the fellow Rogue's trust. It was a good feeling. Corran stared at the jacket. He had never realized how worn it was. Wedge had probably had it...since what, the Rebellion? Before? He noticed that Tycho had raised his head and was watching him, and slightly embarrassed, he quickly looked back in the box. Holos of fellow pilots, a picture of Wedge's parents, a picture of his X-wing, a toothbrush...

Hobbie had saved his toothbrush. Corran quickly put the jacket back on top and walked over to the tiny kitchenette, hiding his face. Tycho and Hobbie watched silently as Corran busily reached into the cabinet and pulled out some glasses, muttering under his breath as he searched for something to put in them. Finally taking out what looked like a bottle of Corellian whisky, he deemed himself composed enough to turn back around. "Want a drink?"

"Sure." "Yeah, go ahead."

Corran poured the drinks, and walked over to hand one to Tycho, who nodded his thanks. "So they were trying to raid his room?" Corran asked as Hobbie accepted the second glass from him.

"Yep," Hobbie intoned, glaring at his whisky. "One of them looked like Intelligence."

"Intelligence. Really. And how did you get rid of them; you can't pull rank on Intelligence."

Hobbie supplied a rare, slightly smug smile. "You can if you threaten to punch them in the face as well." The smile faded. "They'll probably be back to bother me, but I didn't have a choice. Wedge deserves better than...than to have his things locked up in some intelligence analysis locker and sent to a fat great aunt he's never met."

Corran sat down on the small desk in in the center of the room, nodded grimly. "I can get all of it on the Pulsar Skate tonight, probably after the funeral. Mirax says she's staying as long as she can. From there the Errant Venture might be the safest place."

Tycho took a sip of his drink and looked up curiously. "Since when did you start trusting Booster Terrik?"

Corran examined the liquid in his glass. "I can't say I like him...but I know that he was protective of Wedge like his own kid. He won't bow down to any New Republic protocol demands. He can protect everything until we figure out what to do."

Hobbie was peering into the box. "There's not much to protect." After rooting through for a moment, he suddenly became indignant. "Hey, why the hell did Wedge keep this picture?" He held up a medium sized semi-transparent holo, a picture of the early Rogues with a few pilots Corran didn't recognize. A bald woman was pulling a protesting Hobbie's ear in the back. "I look like a Yvork..."

Tycho smiled as he recognized it. "I have that picture. Wedge saw it in my office, and was laughing for five minutes straight. I made a copy for him."

"Oh." Hobbie let Tycho's words sink in, and Corran could tell that it was meaningful to the man. He could also see the moment he covered up his emotions with a dour, indignant expression. "It wasn't funny; it really hurt. I still have to pay her back for that-"

Suddenly the doorbell rang, and all three pilots froze. Standing up but not moving his eyes from the door, Corran waved at Hobbie and hissed. "Quick, put it under the bed."

Putting the box slightly to one side, Hobbie leaned forward and peered upside down through his legs. "That's not going to work. Won't fit."

"OK, ok, sithspit..." Corran looked around the frantically. "The closet!" He grabbed Hobbie by the arm and began marshaling him towards the tiny walk-in closet in the back wall.

Hobbie did his best to protest. "Hey, watch it! I'm not going in the closet-"

Corran pulled open the tiny door and tried to shove Hobbie and the box inside. "It's just for a little while until we check who it is-"

"Oh, great, then they'll search the room and 'Sir, we just found an idiot hiding behind Corran Horn's pajamas-"

Corran was trying to turn Hobbie sideways and get him to fit the box in first. "What, would you rather hide in the 'fresher?"

"Ow, at least then I could sit on the john and look like I was doing something-"

"While holding a box? That won't look suspic...there!" The box squeezed through the opening with a thud and the attached Hobbie was pushed in afterwards.

"Why are you hiding me too, just hide the box-"

Corran shut the door and turned around to lean against it, Hobbie's indignant voice muffled. He looked at Tycho. "Ready?"

Tycho was already standing by the door, looking ready for potentially unfriendly company. "Ready." Corran composed himself and walked towards the door. "You know," Tycho said as he reached for the door switch, "you should be careful about upsetting Hobbie. He might sick Wes on you."

The door slid open, and Corran stood ready to deal with..."Gavin?"

A young man with a dark goatee smiled sadly at Corran. "Hi Corran. I was wondering if you'd mind talking at all-"

"Sithspawn, Gavin, you almost gave us a heart attack!"

Gavin looked confused, and glanced worriedly down at himself. "Is there something on my clothes-"

"No, get in here." Corran grabbed the young pilot by the collar and dragged him inside, poking his head back into the hallway for one last anxious survey.

Inside, Gavin noticed Tycho, and gave a smile and a nod. "Hello, sir. I'm sorry if I interrupted anything..."

"You're fine, Gavin," Tycho gave him a reassuring smile, before returning to his seat.

Gavin watched as Corran came back inside, looking frazzled. "Corran, what's going on?"

Corran shook his head. "Nothing. Forget about it. Here, go ahead and take a seat."

Before doing so, Gavin pulled a datapad out of his pocket. "I found the hyperspace coordinates to the Yuman system. I had to have a technician help me look it up, because it wasn't in the public databases."

Corran accepted the datapad and slapped Gavin on the back. "Thanks, Gavin. Though I forgot to tell you that Iella already has that covered."

Gavin's face lit up. "Then you got a hold of her? Is she coming? That's great!"

Motioning for Gavin to take a seat on the bed, Corran lightly tossed the datapad to Tycho, who caught it with his free hand. "Sure did. Tycho, Iella said she'd contact you directly. I'm assuming she already has?"

The melancholic man leaned back in seat, trying to get the datapad to fit into one of his cargo pockets. "She contacted me an hour and a half ago. And not only is she coming, Gavin; it sounds to me like she somehow has clearance for an official mission."

"What?" Corran narrowed his eyes. "She didn't tell me that. But then, admittedly neither of us were being very articulate."

"Well, I'm assuming you communicated something well. She'd already talked to Cracken when she called me."

Another smile lit Gavin's youthful face, a welcome sight to Corran, who realized he literally had not seen a real smile since the mission. "That's really, really great. I knew Iella would help. And that way none of us will be breaking any rules-"

Gavin almost jumped from the bed when he was startled by a massive thump and muffled swearing coming from the closet. "Hey, what the-"

"Oops." Corran ambled over to crack open the closet door. "Well, actually we've already broken a couple of those. Hobbie? You can come out, it's just Gavin."

Hobbie shoved his face out and glowered. "You need to rearrange your shelves. To 'not jutting out at elbow height'."

"Sorry." Corran tried to help as Hobbie disentangled himself from his clothing. The man stepped over a pile of boots and reentered the room without the box.

"Hey, Darklighter."

Gavin was looking completely baffled again. "Hi. Look, would anyone mind explaining to me why Lieutenant Klivian was in the closet?"

He didn't get an answer, because at that moment a comlink beeper went off, and all four of them started slapping their pockets in search of the offending electronic device. Tycho pulled his out first. "It's mine." He thumbed it on. "Celchu here." Gavin was looking to ask Corran something, but Tycho waved him quiet. "Uh huh. Uh huh. Which hanger? Uh huh. Alright, I'm on my way. Thanks. Celchu out." He clipped the comlink to his belt and stood up. "The Millenium Falcon is here, hanger three."

"General Solo is here?" Corran looked surprised.

Hobbie was already walking the short distance to the door. "I'd be surprised if he wasn't. Wedge has saved his ass more times than I can remember."

Gavin looked anxious. "Do you mind if I come? I've never seen the actual Falcon up close before..."

Tycho nodded as he walked into the hall. "Sure, Darklighter. He'd like to meet you."

"I'll see you there, Gavin," Corran called back from the closet. "I just need to get dressed."

As he heard the door swish closed, Corran clicked the light on in the closet, something he'd forgotten to do for Hobbie; he sighed at the massive mess the man had made of his clothes. Grabbing his standard pilot's outfit, he knelt down and searched for a missing boot in the pile on the floor. He found it in the far corner, leaning against the box of Wedge's things. He paused as he reached for it.

The entire life of one of the greatest men he had ever known, held in a ragged container on the floor of his closet. He finally shook his head, and grabbed the boot. "If Hobbie's any measure, you are going to be the best protected crate box in the history of the universe," he told it, before switching the light off and closing the door, leaving it alone in the dark.

----------------------------------------------------------------

At that moment, Wes Janson was sitting in the cantina Chelko had directed him to, nursing an ale in one of the far corners. He had to admit, the place was absolutely perfect; he owed Chelko a drink sometime, or maybe a day off. The tiny cantina was out of the way and hard to find, but well cared for by droid bartenders. Most of the technicians and mechanics were either on their sleep cycle or at work, so it was empty except for a few Verpine chittering together at the main bar.

He took another sip of his drink. He didn't like to get roaringly drunk, like so many pilots did on their downtime. He'd rather found that mediated alcohol was great at numbing the mind, and was a way to avoid certain aspects of reality. For example, death. Being a professional fighter pilot meant you killed a lot of people, and also that a lot of the people you knew got killed. He'd chosen that profession, as much as anyone was able to turn down the desperate need to fight in the rebellion, so he didn't allow himself to wallow in self pity.

However, occasionally he let himself get too close to someone he knew would probably die. It was stupid, but he hadn't been able to help it. And it meant that those relationships were time bombs waiting to go off. He could list those relationships on one hand; Hobbie, Tycho, Wedge, and increasingly he'd found some of the newer Wraiths and Rogues were creeping under his skin.

Lurking threats; the death of any of these people. But a threat he had decided to shoulder in exchange for friendship.

He took another sip from his glass. Which one had disappeared again? Wedge. It was Wedge. The butt of all his pranks, the man willing to smile and play the deadpan foil necessary for Wes' humor to work. They'd looked out for each other, had since they had started practicing as partners in that damned snowspeeder of theirs, the one with the faulty landing gear and the mysterious smell coming from the port air vent. Wedge had claimed an animal died inside; Wes had claimed it was Wedge. It had turned out to be an animal, just like Wedge had thought. Wedge was always right, or at least most of the time. That was why he was a good pilot. He had good judgement. That was why his one-time gunner was still alive.

Better not to think about it. Just shoulder it and keep going. The funeral was now only an hour and a half away. No biggie. Just stand and watch the speaker. Except usually the speaker at the military services he attended was Wedge. That was ironic. Who would give the speech? He hoped a Wookie was going to give it. Somehow that would be funny. Wedge would roll his eyes and think it was funny too.

Damn, get a hold of yourself, pilot, Wes scolded himself. You knew this was coming. And true, you never knew how you were going to deal with it when it did come, but that doesn't mean that you can't handle it. Wedge Antilles is dead, just like all the other people who died on that planet. Just because you liked him a bit better than most people doesn't mean you need to fall apart.

He emptied his glass, and when the serving droid asked if he wanted another drink, he shook his head. He stood up, stretched, and threw a chip on the table before starting to retrace his steps.

As he walked through the hanger, which did in fact have a horribly gutted A-wing near one of the entrances, his comlink buzzed and he looked down at it. The message light was blinking, and he fished into his pocket to pull out his personal datapad. It was a message from someone named Ecaf. Face!

He'd known the Wraiths were currently undercover, and he'd wondered if they'd been told about the Commander.

-KETTCH: WE HEARD. WISH WE COULD COME. HOPE YOU ARE OK. STAY STRONG.

Wes just felt kind of numb looking at it. Sure. He was doing that. If Myn Donos had handled the loss of his entire squadron, he could handle the loss of one old wingmate.

No problem. Wes wandered back to his quarters to get dressed for the service.


	10. The Falcon

Gavin stared at the famous ship in front of them; he'd seen dozens of holos before, as well as the creaky fake-up the Wraith's had worked on, but never the original. The nice paint job couldn't cover up the massive dents and strange bulges on the hull - just like Han Solo's officer uniform couldn't completely obfuscate the anti-authoritative man underneath when he began walking down the Falcon's ramp.

General Solo waved a hand to the Rogues as the hanger's crew scurried around them, busy attending to landings, fuelings, and take-offs. Reaching the group with a pensive expression, he took Tycho's hand and arm in a firm two-handed grip. "Look, Celchu, I can't tell you how sorry I am. You guys deal with enough as it is, and then to have Wedge-"

"Yeah, I know. Thank you, sir. I'm glad you could come."

"Sure. Anything for Wedge. He was a good man. I probably wouldn't be alive if not for some of the stunts he pulled."

"That's definitely true of all of us." A slightly awkward pause fell on the group as they both fished for something more to say. Tycho changed the subject. "You remember Lieutenant Klivian?" The referenced pilot was standing slightly to attention with his hands in his pockets.

"Remember Hobbie? Hard to forget you, buddy. Still using up the New Republic's bacta supply?"

The two shook hands, and Hobbie shrugged at the attempt at lightheartedness. "Addiction's hard to break."

Gavin felt a sudden rush of nervousness when Tycho tilted his head towards him next. "And I don't know if you've met Gavin before. He helped us on Coruscant."

A big grin broke across Han's face. "Gavin Darklighter. Sure, I've heard about you. Bigg's cousin, right? Heard you've been doing a great job."

Gavin blushed bright red. "Yes, sir. I mean, I hope so, sir." He accepted the general's firm handshake.

"Good to know there's another Darklighter fighting. Have you met Luke at all?"

"Not really, sir. He is a Jedi, now."

Han snorted. "Yeah, well if he gets tired of being all high and mighty, I'll make sure he comes over to say hi. He'd love to meet you. You can reminisce about womprats together."

Tycho gestured towards the hanger exit. "Shall we?"

"Uh, wait one second, Chewie just wanted to finish up in the Falcon. He'll be...there he is."

The famed Chewbacca appeared in the freighter's door, growled something in Wookiee when he saw Han, and ducked under one of the door pistons to start heading their way. A gold protocol droid, C-3PO, Gavin figured, surveyed the scene and shuffled down afterwards.

Han sighed. "Sorry about bringing Threepio. He wanted to come to the service, and I'm not as good as I used to be at telling him what to do."

Tycho gave a slight shrug. "He's welcome, of course."

Chewbacca reached them and seemed to recognize all three pilots; he said something and put his large hairy hand on Tycho's shoulder. "Good to see you again, Chewbacca."

The Wookiee removed his hand and with his long hair waving as he gesticulated, said something to Han. Tycho turned slightly as if to start leading them towards the hanger exit, but Chewbacca startled Gavin by reaching out again and grabbing the Captain's arm. Tycho was just as surprised.

Rarrrwarrwar.

"Um, I'm sorry Chewbacca, I don't speak Wookiee-"

Han quirked a grin. "Want me to get Goldenrod, Chewie?"

Chewbacca made several more noises that seemed to adamantly turn this proposal down, when Threepio appeared at his side.

"I must say, those refueling droids make navigation extremely difficult. Captain Celchu, it looks as if my colleague Chewbacca here is in need of my translating abilities. If you will excuse the lack of crude gesticulations, he is trying to express his most heartfelt condolences for the loss of your Commander Antilles-"

With another, even more irritated roar, Chewbacca pushed Threepio backwards a few steps and waved his arms in frustration.

"Chewbacca! I'm trying to help, you furry ape! Is this the only thanks I ever get for trying to render my assistance?" The droid's voice had reached an upset falsetto.

Han reached out and grabbed his partner's furry arm. "Hey, hey, Chewie, take it easy, take it easy. I'll translate for you, alright?"

"How can you not admonish him for such behavior? I'll never understand you humans. Before I am completely banished, I would like to say something myself."

Han rolled his eyes. "Here we go."

With an expressive look at General Solo, Threepio turned his attention to the three pilots, specifically Tycho. "Captain Celchu, it is common knowledge that you were one of Commander Antilles' closest friends and comrades. As such, I feel it is appropriate that I tell you how I feel about his loss. The Commander was, in my humble opinion, an excellent pilot and an invaluable asset to myself and others on numerous occasions. I remain in his debt."

Tycho smiled sadly and lowered his head to droid. "I'm sure the Commander would have appreciated your words, Threepio."

Threepio seemed to phsyically straighten, embolded by the respectful answer. "Indeed. And his skill as a pilot was rumored to be extraordinary. I would even go so far as to say he was a better pilot than either General Solo or Chewbacca-"

"Alright, Goldenrod, don't you have something else to do?"

With one last indignant look, which was surprisingly expressive for a metal face with no moving parts, the eccentric droid excused himself. "I will find something else to do with my time until the service, then. Captain, if you'll excuse me." Looking long-suffering, he walked off with his joints squeaking.

Chewie had calmed down, and told Han something in Wookiee. "Ok...yeah, buddy, sure...I know what you're trying to say...alright..."

Chewbacca finished and turned to look at Tycho, who shared a quick glance with the other two pilots before returning the look curiously.

"Alright, Chewbacca here has a few things to say," Han started. "He knows that you're one of Wedge's best friends, and that you guys played sabaac with us on Hoth-"

"Rar, rar, rawr, rawwr..."

"Right, played sabaac and also helped us find that part to the Falcon when the droids said they didn't have any in inventory." Han looked at Chewie to make sure he was saying it right, and Chewbacca made a noise of approval. "And he wanted to say how sorry he is that you don't have Wedge around anymore to be your friend. He says Wedge was an exceptional pilot,"

Rarrarrar...

"Especially that time when Wedge flew his snowspeeder with Chewie here still hanging on the bottom-"

Rarrwar-

"Which he admits Wedge didn't mean to do on purpose-"

Rarr...

"And that Wedge was a good man, and Chewie here doesn't want you to feel bad or guilty about what happened."

Tycho looked at Chewbacca directly and nodded his thanks. "Thank you, Chewbacca. Wedge was an amazing man, and we were lucky to be his friends."

Gavin noticed that several of the hanger technicians were stopping their work to whisper and watch the group, so he felt a bit of relief when they finally started walking towards the exit.

Han was watching Tycho out of the corner of his eye as they walked, and cast a searching glance at Gavin and Hobbie as well. "Look; Chewie also wants to know if you guys are doing alright. I'd like to ask the same question."

The three exchanged glances, and Hobbie dourly turned to Han with an answer. "We're doing alright. We're here, at least."

Han sighed. "Sure you are. Though you look a lot more together than I thought you might be, which leads me to believe that you're up to something."

Tycho's face was the pinnacle of innocence. "Up to something? Since when are the Rogues ever up to something?"

"Since Antilles took over, that's when." Han turned an extremely curious look on all of them. "And I get the feeling that this funeral isn't the end of things. Whatever you guys are doing, I want in."

As they crossed the hanger, Gavin suddenly stopped and craned his neck over a refueling cart; he could have sworn he'd heard Corran's voice.

Tycho looked back. "Gavin?"

"Yes sir, one second, I thought I heard...hey, is that the Pulsar Skate?"

"Where?" Tycho craned his neck to look around the same obstacle. "That's odd; Flight Control was supposed to keep me updated on incoming traffic. Though that landing gear does look familiar."

He looked back at Han. "Do you mind if we check it out? Mirax Terrik's ship is supposed to be arriving about now."

"Terrik, as in the smuggler? I'd love to meet her. C'mon, Chewie. No, I'm not trying to reopen my contacts. No. I told you, we're getting the new sensor package through legitimate channels. Why? No, it's not because Leia told me to, I just feel like getting a real permit - hey, furball, watch your language, I'm the General here- no, I don't think it would be disrespectful to Wedge-"

As they weaved through the thick of the hanger towards the glimpse of recognizable hull, Gavin swore he heard Corran's voice becoming louder. A droid ceased making a loud construction noise, and even though they were still a good hundred feet away, words were suddenly distinguishable.

"This...ridiculous. Helped bring...Coruscant..."

"...need clearance..."

"What do mean, clearance? What-"

"Sir, we shouldn't even have given docking clearance - we _didn't _give docking clearance-"

"So you would have had her wait for an hour while you checked with five superiors?"

"It's a civilian ship, sir. I'm already in trouble for that-"

"Luke Skywalker landed without a problem."

"That's a special case, and he had clearance."

The debate finally came into view. Corran, Mirax, and another man were standing at the base of the Skate's ramp. Corran was obviously angry, his arms gesticulating when he spoke, but the technician was holding on stubbornly. Gavin's heart almost broke when he saw Mirax standing quietly behind Corran, arms held together protectively and head lowered.

"What about that ship over there? It's from where, Eiattu? That's civilian."

"Yes, but it has a diplomatic release code-"

"What's going on here?" Tycho demanded as they pulled up to the group. Mirax looked up and smiled when she noticed them. Tycho smiled back softly before turning to the suddenly jumpy technician. "Well?"

"Captain Celchu, sir, this ship landed before we gave it clearance. We didn't intercept it because our computers recognized it as a friendly, but it's a massive breach of protocol."

"Is my permission enough?"

The tech looked sheepish. "Um, no, sir. Not in this hanger, at least."

Tycho frowned, and then Han Solo stepped forward. "Hey, recognize me?"

The man almost dropped his clipboard. "General Solo? Yes sir! Of course, sir!"

"Good. Tell your superiors that I give this ship complete clearance for as long as the captain wants."

"Yessir!"

"Now scram."

"Yessir! Absolutely, sir!" The wide-eyed man gave an overzealous salute and practically ran off.

"Mirax? I'm so glad you could come." Tycho's words were full of honest meaning.

"Oh, Tycho-" Mirax pulled the man into a big hug, her face puffy and red. "The moment Corran told me..."

"I know. I'm sorry." Tycho looked up from her shoulder to Corran, who was now standing quiet, looking exhausted.

Finally pulling out from the hug, she noticed Hobbie and another sad fond smile touched her lips. "Hobbie Klivian."

"Hi, Mirax." She pulled the blinking man into a hug as well. She seemed to forget to let go, and after a while, Hobbie appealed silently to Gavin. "Um..."

Gavin walked over and bent down to look at her at eye level. "Um, Mirax..."

She seemed to snap out of it. "Oh, hi Gavin. Sorry, Hobbie." She released him, Hobbie now looking about as awkward as a man could get. Gavin saw his shoulders sag a bit in relief. Mirax visibly pulled herself together, and scrubbed off her cheeks with her gloved hands. "Corran told me last night. I dropped out of a bartering deal and came this direction as soon as I could."

Over Corran's shoulder, Gavin squinted and in the distance saw the technician explaining something to what was probably a superior, pointing their direction. "Tycho..." He nodded towards the two men, and Tycho quickly took in the sight, before looking over to Han, who was standing respectfully off to one side. "General, it looks like we have a new friend headed our direction. I doubt it will be a problem, but..."

"But he might give us flak. Well, there's an easy way to avoid that - where to?"

Tycho turned to Mirax. "Do you need anything else from the ship?" She shook her head, and Tycho nodded. "Good. Quick, it looks like he's coming this way - let's use the exit over there."

Corran put his arm around Mirax's shoulder and they once again set off. Gavin was at this point itching to get out of the crowded and dark hanger; it was oppressive. They walked in silence for the distance. Han's earlier banter with his companion was nonexistent.

Finally; Gavin breathed an audible sigh of relief when they entered a well lit hallway.

In the good light, Mirax finally seemed to acknowledge the presence of the General. "Thank you for bailing me out back there."

"No problem." Han sent a half-cocked smile her way. "One of the few advantages of promotion."

"Sure. You know..." She looked at the man warily and wiped her red nose with her sleeve, "I'm not usually like this. You're seeing me in an unusual situation..."

"Hey, you're Booster Terrik's daughter, and not only that, your reputation practically exceeds his, sweetheart. That takes someone with nerves of steel and one helluva street cred. I'm not going to judge you at your friend's funeral."

"He was one helluva friend," Mirax intoned after a pause, still looking cautious.

"I believe you, trust me."

"We grew up together."

"Damn, woman, I already said I'm not going to pass judgement on you for crying at the funeral of a friend! And I sure as hell won't when the dead man is Wedge, alright? He was my friend, too, you know."

After the outburst, another pregnant silence fell on the group, broken by Mirax's apparent acceptance that Solo was telling the truth. "That's good to hear. I'm sorry for you, then. Wedge was a good man."

Han nodded in agreement, still looking moody, but accepting the strange truce. "Damn right he was. A little straight-laced, sometimes, but about as trustworthy as you can get."

Mirax laughed between sniffles. "He was a bit straight-laced, wasn't he? He didn't make a very good smuggler. He did some runs for my dad when I was a kid - Booster used to get irritated because he never bargained for a better price."

Gavin listened with surprise. "Commander Antilles was a smuggler?" He hadn't known Wedge had smuggled, or done anything illegal. But then, he supposed the entire nature of the Rebel Alliance was somewhat illegal.

"A gun-runner, at that," Mirax supplied, smiling at Gavin's naivety. "But that didn't last very long before he got sucked up in the Rebellion. Maybe he thought it was less dangerous."

Han snorted. "That was a stupid conclusion."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They eventually reached a crossroads, and Mirax looked up into Tycho's only slightly higher face. "The service is when?"

"An hour away."

"Will I be able to get in? If it's just military personnel..."

Another angry glower crossed Corran's face. "You'll get in. I'm prepared to use my blaster if I have to."

"Not necessary, Horn," Tycho shook his head. "I'll make sure no one hassles her."

Corran squeezed Mirax gently with his arm, and turned to Tycho. "Dress uniforms?"

"Of course." Hobbie answered. "Thinking you could avoid it, Horn?"

Corran sighed. "Wedge didn't like them. But he did make us wear them." He supplied a grim, sour smile. "I suppose we need to show he trained us to do something that followed official protocol."

"Well, in light of clothes, I'll be going." Hobbie saluted to Han. "General."

Han returned it. "Lieutenant."

With a flurry of sedate salutes and nods, Hobbie, Corran, Mirax, and Gavin walked off towards their quarters.

Tycho, Han, and Chewbacca were left standing in the hallway. Chewbacca let out a growling mew and said something to Han, and Han reached up and distractedly messed up the hair on his companion's head. "Yeah, I know, pal. Look, Celchu," he sent the younger man the Han Solo approximation of a stern look, "you probably have to get dressed. Chewie and me will let you off babysitting duty and head on over. Where's the service supposed to be?"

"I'll take you there." Tycho lightly touched Han on the arm and guided him down the hall. "My dress uniform is in a locker by the hanger. I'm supposed to be there early, anyways."

Han didn't look completely convinced. "You're sure..."

"I'm sure, sir." They walked in silence for awhile. Tycho knew he _had_ somehow taken on the role of host, but it helped distract him. Well, it would have if people stopped addressing their regrets directly to him, as if he were the surviving spouse. If they felt so bad, why hadn't they told the man their feelings while he was alive? Tycho realized he was gritting his teeth in a sort of angry bitterness, and he forced the muscles to relax. If people wanted to express their feelings, he wasn't the one to get angry at their belated timing. And if he served as a convenient surrogate for the real thing, so be it.

He looked up and realized that they had already reached the lift that would take them to the tiny hanger. They had walked the entire distance in complete silence. Well, so much for being a host.

Tycho touched the keypad for level A21, Repair Hanger. As they waited for the lift to arrive, Tycho looked at Han out of the corner of his eye, before averting his gaze back to their warped images in the metal lift door.

Han finally cleared his throat. "Um, Celchu, before I lose track of you, I want you to know that I meant it when I said I wanted in."

"In?"

"On whatever you and the Rogues are up to."

Tycho blinked. He'd almost forgotten about the man's flippant comment in the hanger. He wanted in? "If you don't mind me asking, sir...why?"

"Why?" Han looked surprised, and little put-off. "I want some payback too, snub-brain."

"Snub-brain? And what makes you think we want payback?"

"I know how you guys operate. Sure, missions come first, but your true motivator is your buddies. I know because I'm the same way. And I happened to like Wedge Antilles. Quite a bit, actually. And it pisses me off that some worthless imps blew him up like that, and I'm tired of dealing with this stuff diplomatically, fed up with councils, with strategies, with big pictures. I'm fed up. You want to know how the politicians are dealing with Wedge's death?"

Tycho was watching Han warily. "I'm not sure."

"They're already bickering over how to _replace_ the man." Han was fuming. "You can't replace a man like that. And you can't be Antilles, goddamnit, because you're Celchu, just like I can't because I'm Solo. And get this;" Han leaned in closer, whispering furiously. They had moved to the corner away from the turbolift. "That damn Bothan is _happy _Antilles is dead because he was loyal to Luke and Leia and Ackbar. Figured that Wedge made you and the Rogues into some kind of private army. And he's trying to get that Commander role filled up with a Bothan-"

Tycho was listening in sick disbelief. "With who, Asyr? She's dead. And Asyr hated politics."

"Doesn't matter. He's pushing other options, the sick bastard." Han finally paused and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He succeeded in cooling his tone, but not much else. "Antilles risked his life everyday for what these politicians sit around and enjoy. They'll give the man a heroes funeral once they decide to leak it to the media, they'll make him up into some martyr and sell him to the masses, and then they'll put his picture in a museum and forget about him. But something as simple as finding his body? They couldn't care less."

"Leia and Mon Mothma care, don't they?"

"Well, yeah, but they have to look at the big political picture. It has me wondering, though." Tycho could see that Han's jaw clenched as he paused and looked to one side. "Are we in the same boat, Celchu? You go down, and they spend a day talking about you on the interplanetary vid-channel, put you in a museum. That's fine and all, but it's political propaganda. The political stuff - I know Wedge hated politics like that. We all do."

Han looked empty of words for a second. Chewbacca was standing like a sentinel, watching the occasional personnel go by, using his intimidating glare to stop them from gawking or paying too much attention.

Tycho slowly shook his head. "What about Ackbar, and the rest of the military? They don't think like that."

Han's fury deflated slightly. "No. They don't. And the military has to go through with what the council wants. And they're probably right to do that." He rubbed his temple with one hand, looking harried.

"Then why-"

"Maybe I'm just fed up with it. Damn. Maybe no one is doing anything wrong."

"You're just tired of doing what other people tell you to do."

Han grimaced. "No, that's not it. Being a General, you don't have to listen to a lot of people." Chewbacca looked back and seemed to contest that fact pretty verbally. "Hey...alright, Chewie, I might, just might do what Leia wants me to do sometimes. And yeah, if Mon Mothma or Ackbar...point is, I don't listen to the Council."

Tycho finally understood. "You're tired of sacrificing friends for big, abstract concepts." He nodded, and reached out to offer Han his hand, which the man looked at with suspicious confusion. "You wanted in, you're in. We're going back to Yuman. If you stay around until later, I'll fill you in on the details."

Han took the proffered hand and shook it seriously. "Deal."

Tycho nodded. "Now, if you don't mind, I have to get dressed. Payback or not, Wedge is still dead; there's still a funeral in half an hour."

Han's eyes darkened. "Right." They starting moving back to the turbolift. "C'mon, Chewie." Chewbacca said something in response, and they stepped through the door.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Tycho had finally been released from Han's overwhelming presence, and accepted more condolences from Admiral Ackbar, who was overseeing the setup for the service, he found he literally did not have the strength to change clothes in the nearby locker-room. He just sat on the bench, shirt undone, elbows on knees and gripping his head in his hands. It was too much. All that talk of politics, all the attention, all the sympathetic grief, it was too much.

Wedge was dead. Stone cold, body blown into smithereens dead. Tycho now realized that his identity in the last seven years had been forged as Wedge's partner, his backup, and his wing. They had understood each other implicitly. In X-wings and on the ground, they knew every move the other would make, tendencies, styles, bad habits, weaknesses. As wingmates, they had been unparalleled in all of Star Command. They had flown into the Death Star together. And now only one had flown out. Worse yet, he'd _left_ his partner to the mercies of that explosion.

Payback? Yeah, they were definitely going to find payback. It would help with closure, he realized, for the entire squadron, especially for the older Rogues like Hobbie, and Wes, and even Plourr, though she wasn't back on a permanent basis. And apparently it would give Han Solo some satisfaction as well. Taking down the people who had killed Wedge was an agreed upon necessity. But would that help him?

Maybe. At least it would help distract him from the actual loss. But closure; maybe that would never happen. Fighting in the New Republic against the people who killed his family had given him a purpose, but it had failed to give him closure. The grief and guilt had dulled over time, but it had never gone away, and with Wedge, he realized it would be the same.

So much for improving that melancholic disposition Winter teased him about. Thank the Force he still had Winter. He'd contacted her as soon as he'd been able, but he wasn't sure if she had received the message. The last time he'd spoken to her, over a month ago, she had been in an undisclosed location with the Solo children. He was sure that she'd heard about Wedge through the Solo's, but he couldn't help wishing that Han Solo had taken over baby-sitting and that Winter had arrived in the Millenium Falcon in his stead.

Finally lowering his arms, he let his head slump back and stared at the sterile lights on the ceiling. Which brought a wall chrono into view...sithspawn, ten minutes left. He was supposed to be out marshaling the squadrons into ceremonial order, and while he'd ignored that duty for its triviality, he couldn't ignore his duty to simply be there. He stood up and started pulling on his dress uniform, and without checking to see if his hair was presentable, took a deep breath and left the quiet sanctuary of the locker-room.


	11. Ackbar

**CHAPTER 11**

Mirax trailed behind Corran as they made their way through the small crowd, holding loosely onto his hand. As she looked at the people they passed, she couldn't help but notice that she was the only one not wearing a New Republic military uniform. It made her feel like an outsider; she was still dressed in her favorite flight outfit, sans goggles and helmet, and she realized with a strange tightening of her stomach that she was wearing the same jacket as when she had first rediscovered Wedge four years ago.

It had been a freak accident; literally a random meeting on the street. She would have called it improbable if they hadn't both been drawn to that location for similar spacer reasons. She smiled at the memory, and her eyes watered again.

She'd been kept well up to date on Veggies' exploits via the bragging of Booster, who had been indescribably proud to hear that his friends' son had blown up a Death Star. He'd gone on like a father about how he'd trained the kid to pilot (he hadn't really), to the point that Mirax had actually been a little jealous. Only Mirax knew that Booster had warned Wedge away from working with the Rebellion, though Booster carefully omitted that fact whenever he was telling his newest victim about "the Antilles' kid."

For her, it had been hard to imagine the brown-haired boy blowing up Death Stars. She could only see him tinkering on the Skate's engines and sitting protectively with his arm around her shoulder that time Booster had been in a blaster fight.

But when they'd met on that street, any residual jealousy or doubts had vanished. The young man was the same Veggies she'd remembered, albeit wiser and more grown up.

She wondered if Wedge had ever realized how proud Booster had been of him. Probably not; she never heard the man brag about her, but she knew second-hand that telling people about his daughter's exploits was one of his favorite activities. She knew Booster was proud of her; but how would Wedge have known? She'd told him a few times, but had he really understood?

She wished Booster could be here right now. Corran wouldn't mind. If the two most important men in her life had any common ground, it was their extreme protectiveness of Wedge Antilles. Too bad that protectiveness had failed to keep him alive.

------------------------------------------

Hobbie walked into the hanger behind a group of three other Blue Squadron pilots. It was one of the smaller repair hangers, the center of which had been cleared out for the ceremony, with all craft and equipment moved to the sides. As it was a pilots' funeral, no efforts had been taken to remove the snubfighters under repair. Instead, they rested at attention facing the center of the hanger in orderly lines on each side, A-wings, a B-wing, three X-wings, and an E-wing, all in different squadron colors and stages of repair. Gavin's X-wing, in for extreme damage to the right s-foil, was within the ranks, unrecognizable at first because they hadn't flown their last fatal mission under normal Rogue colors.

In the center of the hanger, facing out towards the space beyond the atmosphere containment field, rested three unadorned gray coffins; one for Slunb Turnbian, one for Jorram Nelson and one for Wedge Antilles.

While some would have said the quickness of the service veered to cruelty to their memories, it was hardly such; rather, it was a tradition from the Rebel Alliance when downed men were given the nod as soon as they passed, simply because there were battles to return to and waiting until later might as well mean it would never happen.

Many similar traditions had remained in place after the founding of the New Republic. From the crazed days of the Rebellion, Hobbie could remember quiet services in the middle of busy hangers, in pilot briefings, even in dormitories. Sometimes they'd had the bodies of their friends in front of them, sometimes not.

Back then, services were usually only attended by personnel that had worked directly with the downed individuals, as it wasn't possible for people to constantly be attending services, especially when they happened on such a frequent basis. Immediate superiors would show up and say a few words when possible, though verbose eulogies were too time consuming and reminiscing was considered a private luxury left for downtime.

Funerals were also often held en-masse, yet another necessity with people dying by the hundreds, sometimes thousands. Hobbie knew that the service for the fifty downed commandoes would be one event, but it was taking place on a different ship, probably with a slightly different set of traditions than those in Star Command. He doubted it would take place in a snub-fighter hanger, for one.

But the tradition that Hobbie had always been proudest of, since he knew this wasn't the case in the Imperial military, was the complete disregard for rank, occupation, etc. in attendees. It went right back to the Alliance, where rank and occupation fluctuated depending on needs, situation, and skills, and where mechanics often piloted snubfighters or manned gun turrets, and vice-versa. So in the communal brotherhood of those days, the service for a mechanic was often attended by any pilot who had worked with him or her, and it all had to do with people knowing and appreciating people, and who could spare the time to attend.

Events were left open to anyone who wanted to attend in the military, of course, but it was more a quiet open end for people who had actually known the dead. It wasn't a common practice for hordes of people to show up; there was actually more of an expectation to keep working, another Alliance mentality that had been necessary for the Rebellion's survival.

In the last few years, as the New Republic had stabilized and settled into power, Hobbie had noticed more often than not that higher ranking officers would attend the funerals of those under their command, a function of the increasing time they could spend not directly engaged in battle. Admiral Ackbar in particular made it a matter of pride to hold the ceremonies for those who died under his direct command or for pilots in Star Command. He didn't make all of them, but he had been to almost all of the pilot services that Hobbie remembered attending in the last few years.

That was only one way that military funerals had started to change as the New Republic had stabilized. Before, sending bodies or even word of death to families had been impossible. Hell, many Rebels had even withheld their real names from their comrades in fear that if their friends were captured and tortured, a spilled name would lead Imperials directly to families. Sending a body home had not only been an economic impossibility, it had been a risk.

Now, with many systems under New Republic control and a strengthened bureaucracy, contacting surviving families was a common practice. Those families that requested would be given the body (or remaining body parts) of the dead. Hobbie wasn't sure if Slunb's body was actually in one of the coffins; it might have already been shipped out to family.

The final addition to tradition, and Hobbie's least favorite, was the political send-off for members of the military. Reserved for individuals who had the ranking, power, fame, or clout to have garnished attention from the policy makers, they were generally pompous affairs that aired on interplanetary vidscreen networks. The pilot Wedge Antilles would be no doubt merit one of those services; maybe a monument somewhere on Coruscant.

So in short, the funeral Hobbie was expecting consisted of squadron mates, maybe a few technicians or mechanics who had worked with the pilots, Ackbar or another ranking commander, and maybe a janitor who had struck up a friendship with one of the downed individuals.

As he made his way to where Rogue Squadron was gathering in a line, he began to notice that there were quite a few hushed people gathering on the outskirts of the pilots, most of whom he didn't recognize, some of whom he did. He saw Koyi milling in the crowd.

He slipped into his position and Asyr reached out and gently touched his shoulder. He set about trying to not look at his squadron mates or the coffins by turning his head to watch the entrance of the hanger. He was completely unprepared to see a hushed and steady stream of humans, non-humans, and even droids entering the hanger for the service.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Wes looked around as he filed in with the others. Sure enough, Admiral Ackbar of Star Command was there, and the members of Talcon Squadron, Blue Squadron, and Rogue Squadron stood out in the crowd in their distinctive white and red dress uniforms. He blinked when he noticed the milling crowd of military personnel in a variety of standard uniforms, looking unsure of themselves as a whole. The hanger was crowded; it looked like all the ship personnel who weren't attending directly to jobs and had been within travel distance had decided to attend.

He began making his way towards his squadron mates, having to shoulder past a couple dense groups. A few, when they saw his face and his pilot outfit, stared or gave him a respectful space and let him pass, while others he had to shoulder out of the way.

He passed one group, where a young Devaronian was standing on his toes and trying to see over the shoulders of a much higher ranking ship-board lieutenant. "Hey, look, is that Luke Skywalker?"

"Really? Where?"

"Over there, I saw him, he's under a dark hood."

"That would make sense. They founded Rogue Squadron together-"

Wes slipped further into the crowd.

--------------------------------------------

Tycho stared disbelieving at the crowd that had gathered behind the orderly first rows of pilots that formed the three sided box around the coffins. On the fourth side, he was standing to the left of Ackbar with Major Johnes of Talcon Squadron on the Mon Calamari's right, their backs to the containment shield and open space.

The crowed was largely unorganized, being completely unplanned for, and he couldn't see just how many people there were because of his position. He looked to his left, where the confused Rogues were trying to stand in an orderly line while being jostled by those behind them trying to find positions. On his right, he saw several people helping clear the way for Toni Gellanstrider to make it to the front. She was leaning heavily on crutches of some sort, and her squadron mates quickly moved to either side of her to make sure she was alright.

He heard a slight clanking. Some tenacious people had clambered up the ladder on one of the X-wings to get a better view of the scene, and he could see their small figures making room for others. It was overwhelming and somewhat absurd. Usually the send-offs for squadron mates were quiet and sparsely attended. This was the opposite of what he had been prepared for. Looking at his pilots, they looked equally overwhelmed. He saw Hobbie, standing to attention near the corner of the square, reach back into the crowd to pull Plourr up to the front; surprised, she huddled into the line with him.

Ackbar had beckoned for an aide, and after whispering to the younger female Mon Cal for a few seconds, she hurried off, coming back almost right away with a small hand held microphone. An unexpected necessity.

The ordered rows of Blues on one side, Talcons on another, and Rogues on the third was becoming progressively blurred as they started to mingle in the minor confusion. Han Solo, Luke Skywalker and Chewbacca had somehow made it to the front. Apparently close friends or the famous were being allowed through the crowd. Corran had actually taken a few steps back from the front, and Tycho glimpsed him standing by the figures of Iella Wessiri and Mirax, who had found each other and were peering around taller men at the simple coffins in the center.

Ackbar sighed and began fiddling with the microphone. "Testing, testing - ahem!" His gravely voice echoed across the hanger and the mass of voices began to quiet almost immediately.

"If I can ask for your silence and attention - and will the officers on top of my E-wing please get off the upper canopy, it's not yet been connected-"

He was answered by a crash as that part of the snubfighter became unbalanced and fell off, and the few people on top scrambled to fix their situation.

Ackbar shook his head hopelessly and lowered the microphone out of pickup range. "If I had known this would be the situation, I would have secured the main shuttle hanger." He looked at Tycho. "Even in death, Antilles is forcing me to deal with unexpected chaos."

Tycho, who was staring at the coffin with a lump in his throat, bit his lip and nodded. "He was good at that, sir."

Another aide suddenly ran up to Ackbar and Tycho could hear them whispering. "Admiral, these deaths are supposed to be kept quiet. We can't manage that if all these people are-"

"Young fry, how long have you been in the New Republic?"

"Me, sir? A year, sir."

"Ah. Then you have no comprehension of this. Go sit down."

The aide looked confused. "Sit down, sir?" He shut his mouth and saluted before turning to disappear back into the crowd.


	12. Funeral

**CHAPTER 12**

Gavin stood with his head lowered next to Asyr, their hands clasped inconspicuously between them.

The skin on his lower stomach still stung under the bacta patch, one of the minor injuries he'd sustained while ejecting from his X-wing. He could see his ship now, if he had been able to draw his eyes from Jorram and Wedge. The hanger wasn't well lit, and the floor, despite hard cleaning, had grease stains that were irremovable. Ackbar had started talking, and while Gavin wasn't discerning what he was saying, the continuous voice somehow made the scene surreal.

But the most surreal part of it all was the fact that one of those coffins was for Wedge. Gavin realized he had been absolutely, irrevocably convinced that Wedge couldn't die. The man was invincible. Despite hours of training in the sims Gavin had never managed to defeat him, though he was proud to say he had come close. Wedge had been phenomenal in a dogfight, and only Celchu had been capable of vaping him on any sort of regular basis.

But Gavin had to own up to the fact that invincibility in one medium didn't necessarily translate into another. Wedge hadn't died in a dogfight or in an X-wing. He had perished on the ground, wandering alone in an abandoned enemy base, trapped in an undiscerning explosion. It was like finding the best vibroblade fighter in the universe, and then shooting him with a blaster. It wasn't right, somehow.

When Gavin morbidly projected any of the Rogues' deaths, it was always in the heat of battle, fighting desparately and bravely in their snubfighters. Now that paradigm of passing didn't work. How would the next Rogue go? Would there be a computer malfunction in hyperspace? Would they be attacked before they could make it to the hanger? A cantina fight gone wrong? Bror Jace had disappeared like that, and so had Lujayne; they had been attacked without their battle armor on, unprepared and unprotected.

And the horrible truth that settled in Gavin's stomach was that if Wedge wasn't invincible, then no one was.

---------------------------------------------

In rows to the right and left behind Ackbar, holos of all the dead pilots of Blue Squadron and Rogue Squadron blinked into existence. Blue Squadron was much younger, and so the dead humans and non-humans filled up only one row. Ackbar turned in that direction. "To the ranks of the brave pilots who have lost their lives in Blue Squadron, we regret to add Slunb Turnbian. Flight Officer Turnbian had only just begun to fight for the New Republic. This was only his fourth mission."

Ackbar paused, and a holo of Slunb sprung into being next to the others. Wes zoned out as Ackbar continued to talk about the dead Sullustan, staring dumbly at the holo image of the former pilot. Nothing but a holo. A holo being. A poor substitute for the real.

"The other losses were both from Rogue Squadron, an unfortunate blow." Ackbar took a gravely intake of air, and turned to his left, where he and Celchu both could look at the holos of the dead Rogues. There was a mass shifting in the crowd as those who were able turned their attention to the transparent ranks of the dead. The holos ran several rows deep, in contrast to the thin line of Blue Squadron pilots.

Ackbar continued. "Rogue Squadron has been fighting in some form since the early days of the Alliance. They are one of the oldest squadrons still active, and along with their great successes, have had to suffer the deaths of far too many of their numbers. Today, I regret to add two more. One, a youth, and a promising new addition to the unit, had just found his wings."

As Ackbar talked about Nelson, Wes' thoughts were once again too heavy to follow, and his eyes instead washed over the line of the dead. He stopped on the short stature of Dllr. The familiar eyes of his former friend seemed to stare back at him, reproachful. Wes stared back, pinned in place.

Was Dllr mad at him? Maybe he had done something wrong. He'd forgotten about Dllr too quickly, tried to move on after he had died. But Dllr couldn't move on. Dllr was dead.

Vacuum cold dead. Wes tried to fight a rising sense of panic as he continued to stare back into those angry eyes. Dllr knew about all the people that Wes had killed, the people he had let die through inattentiveness, through mistakes, through bad whims and choices. Innocents struck by crashing tie fighters he had shot down in bad locations. Squadron mates he hadn't been able to reach in time because he had spent five seconds too long following down a kill. All the ghostly holos had to remember. They all knew. They knew what he had done.

Suddenly Wes felt like everyone in the hanger knew; they could see it in Dllr's eyes. They knew he could have saved Slunb Turnbian, if he had been closer when that eyeball had latched on to him. Wes' jaw was clenched and his hands were knotted up into fists.

"Psst, Wes. _Wes._" He started in a panic and tore his eyes away from Dllr to look for whoever was tugging at his sleeve. It was Hobbie, peering around Asyr and Gavin through the crowd and looking worried. Just Hobbie, good old Hobbie.

"Wes, are you alright?" Hobbie whispered, quiet enough that no one else could hear. Wes tried to let the panic out, to pump the adrenaline out of his stomach. Hobbie at least was in the same ship, and didn't blame him for anything. It was ridiculous to feel like everyone else in the hanger was blaming him. He was just imagining things. Making real eye contact, he nodded and even tried a smile, trying to reassure his friend by looking as grounded as possible. Hobbie, still looking skeptical and worried, nodded back before disappearing again behind Gavin.

------------------------------------------------------

Hobbie resettled behind Asyr and Gavin, suddenly feeling that this ceremony should have been a private one. It was already an almost cruel and harsh thing he and his pilot mates had to stare at all the dead Rogues every time another one of them died. Pulling up memories of the dead was necessary to honor them and remember, but to see them all together like that made them realize just how many had been lost.

The sheer quantity of holos was morbid, even for people who didn't remember every one of them, and the Rogues didn't need to have the extra pressure of dozens of clueless personnel watching in. What did they know about Narra, or Biggs, or Bror Jace? They probably didn't know a thing about Jorram Nelson, who's smiling reincarnation had just flashed into existence in front of Ibtisam. What if Nrin were here? All these people would see how much it hurt him, and they wouldn't understand.

Maybe it was good in a way. When Star Command published anything on Rogue Squadron, the dead were always listed off with a sort of proud relish. The number of heros that had died fighting for a noble cause was an impressive statistic. But when you actually saw their physical representations in front of you, standing like real people, it was impossible not to feel an actual horror and see the sick waste in the sheer number of dead. The horror was in the concept that the living Rogues, the ones standing around in their red and white uniforms, had known all of those individuals intimately.

Maybe that needed to be understood. And adding Wedge to their ranks was the saddest blow of all. Wedge was Rogue Squadron. He had represented their invincibility. Now, maybe the others would finally see that it was their invincibility that made them who they were. To non-Rogues, the dead were seen as sacrifices legitimizing the feats of the survivors, unfortunate sacrifices along the path of glory. But the path of glory was a myth, and it was really just a matter of time before the survivors died too.

And every time one died, some integral part of the other survivors died with them. Maybe looking at this scene, everyone in here would understand just what was missing inside of him, inside of Wes, inside of Tycho, inside of Corran and Asyr and Inyri and Gavin and Myn and Plourr and Nrin and Elscol and all of the Rogues.

The fact that they kept fighting when their friends were dead and their insides were torn up was their true strength; not the feats they accomplished.

Hobbie thought of all those nights Wedge spent trying to write letters to the families of his dead friends, when he was the one who actually needed a letter telling him it was ok. Wedge had worked so hard trying to help the other pilots deal with their grief, that he'd had to swallow his own.

He thought of Wes standing just two people away from him. He could see the dark part of his hair through the shifting shoulders. No one here recognized what Wes actually sacrificed, or what Wedge had actually sacrificed. Giving away your own life to save others was one thing; none of the Rogues thought too much about that. But giving up your friends' lives was something completely different.

And Hobbie was tired off it.

That was why they were going back. He knew full well that when they got there, they would just find a heap of smoking rubble, and if they were truly lucky, maybe the place where Wedge had been, maybe even the burned carcass or a body part, a piece of his flight suit. But they would have gone back. They would have found him. That would be enough.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Ackbar looked down. "The final loss is a loss I had hoped Rogue Squadron and Star Command would never have to face. Commander Wedge Antilles was a survivor, a veteran, and an invaluable asset to so much of what we have accomplished. He worked his way up by flying against impossible odds in a snubfighter, earning the respect and admiration of countless individuals through his bravery and natural leadership, and his unwavering deciation to his people and the New Republic. He was also a good friend. He piloted starfighters from the beginning, joining others in missions before we had the luxury of training, simulaton, or often mission preparation. He was one of the pilots to survive from before Yavin, and with the founding of the New Republic, he brought his hard-earned skills to train and lead a new generation of pilots. Jorram Nelson was one of them."

As Ackbar talked, suddenly Wedge's holo blinked into existence next to Jorram's.

----------------------------------------------------------

Mirax craned her neck in an effort to see what everyone else was looking at. Finally securing a viewpoint, her eyes glued themselves to the image despite continued jostling from the hushed group movement.

She had never seen Wedge in his fancy military uniform before...well, she had at a distance on a few of his media appearances, but never in person. That wasn't Wedge. Why couldn't they put up a holo of him in his civilian clothes?

Then she remembered where she was. She was surrounded by his military comrades, and this Wedge, military Wedge, was the only one they knew.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

When Wes recognized the details in the image of Wedge, he once again had to fight the urge to get up and leave. Commander Wedge Antilles was standing rigid and looking extremely uncomfortable in the New Republic uniform that they all hated so much, but it wasn't the picture that almost pushed Wes over the edge...it was the context.

Every year, all the pilots and personnel in dangerous occupations were required to be photographed in case the worst happened. Wedge had hated the photo-ops more than anyone, but he understood their importance. As such, he always ordered the holo-takers to ensure that if his people made a strange face or blinked, another picture would be taken for posterity's sake.

The Rogues had been waiting in line, hot and stuffy in their uniforms, and Wedge had been extremely grumpy that day. Wes knew he had probably been filing paperwork, something the snubfighter jocky found particularly distasteful. Wes, not about to let that mood persist, had waited until Wedge had taken his rigid pose, and finding a scrap of flimsy in his pocket, had watched the timer and then flicked it at his Commander's head.

Click. Wedge hadn't been amused.

The cameraman's second attempt equalled another flimsy projectile and Wedge blinking in childlike surpise. Two down.

On the third try, after disregarding a scathing warning from his victim, Wes once again threw a flimsy (his room change assignment, which he regreted losing later), only to find that Wedge had somehow communicated with the cameraman to mimic pushing the button.

Wedge had snatched the scrap from the air, sent one more death glare to Wes, and nodded to the cameraman, who had taken the picture.

The final result: holo Wedge gripping a piece of flimsy in his left hand and looking particularly grumpy. Naturally, out of all the pictures taken that day his had been the most bizarre, but he had extended a double standard and not bothered to have it redone.

In another illfated attempt to prove to the younger recruits, that yes, there was indeed some semblance of order in Rogue Squadron, Wedge had tried to punish Wes by giving him kitchen duty for a week, only to regret it when he'd discovered a variety of strange things in his meal-slop.

And then, of course, Wedge had died, and the picture left for the universe was the flawed one he hadn't bothered to retake. Sometimes the galaxy was ironic. Wes just couldn't decide if it was being funny, sad, or mean.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Standing with his back straight, Tycho stared at the holoprojection of his friend. Wedge's picture was calm, unperturbed, and unsmiling, but not grim. It summed up his public persona.

But next to Wedge was the holo of the younger pilot. As he took in both images at the same time, he started with a sudden realizatioon. Jorram Nelson, a beefy human with a blinky look and a green attitude, was OLDER than Wedge. Significantly. By maybe 5 years.

Wedge, who at only 30 years old still had a youthful mop of brown hair and smooth features, made a telling physical contrast to the taller man next to him. But Jorram, in attitude, looked fifty years younger. Wedge's eyes were old, worn, and sad.

How much had his friend been through? Parents dead at just 17, and from then on, never having the chance to be a kid. Always fighting for something, losing at every corner, dead at 30. Such was the life of a fighter pilot. But when other pilots died, they were often older and had only spent two or three years fighting for the cause. Wedge chosen to fight for over a third of his young life.

Suddenly Tycho felt that nothing they could do would be able to repay this man. He had given everything that was in his power to give. His small but strong frame had more bones broken in it than anyone who spent their days in a cockpit had a right to experience.

The idea of the unavoidable New Republic political ceremony suddenly nauseated Tycho. They couldn't do it right. No way. Not when they had left his body to rot, alone, in the territoy of the enemy that Wedge had given everything to fight.

A new purpose lit up Tycho from underneath, and he decided that they would go back even sooner than they had been hoping. They would find where he had died, and they would pay their respects there, at that spot, instead of light years away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Finally, all speaking done, the two men and one Mon Calamari standing between the coffins and open space moved out of the way, and the gray boxes lifted up on repulsorlifts.

Tycho, now joined with the line of Rogue Squadron pilots, stood at rigid attention and saluted to the downed men. Admiral Ackbar, Major Johnes, and everyone in the hanger except Mirax, who clung to Corran's other arm, followed suit and held their arms up in that final farewell.

The three unadorned coffins began floating towards the containment field, and with all eyes watching, slipped through the shimmering reddish glow onto the other side.

The salute didn't waver until the three bright spots became indistinguishable from the stars.


	13. Winter

**CHAPTER 13**

Tycho trailed at the end of the group, the Rogues and the other pilots leaving the hanger after the mass exodus of other personnel. Many of them were walking closer to each other than usual, arms touching, hands on shoulders.

"Tycho!" At the sound of the voice, Tycho felt his heart leap up to his throat. He spun around to see a beautiful white-haired woman trying to squeeze through a crowd and get to him.

"Winter!" Then she was in his arms, and all he could think of was her. They clung to each other for some time, Tycho feeling like he had finally found an anchor. Finally, with one last squeeze, as if to assure himself that she really was there, he held her out at arms length.

A sad smile touched her lips as she gazed into his eyes. "Hey, jockboy. I made it." Her hand ruffled the sandy hair at the back of his head.

Tycho slowly smiled back. "I was worried there for awhile."

Winter faked a haughty sniff, and kissed him gently on the cheek. "You know better than to worry." She noticed Wes and Hobbie standing quietly to one side over Tycho's shoulder. "Well, I see you two are still alive."

Hobbie shrugged. "Without Wedge around, someone still has to look out for loverboy here."

Winter's expression fell, and arms still on Tycho's shoulders, she looked worriedly back into his eyes. "I just made it to the end of the funeral; I stood in the back. I know I should have sent word to you, but I had to call Leia and confirm the Noghri could handle the twins, and I couldn't contact you directly because the location was secret and the transmission could have been tracked, and by the time I got here you were already inside the hanger-"

Tycho pulled her into a one armed hug of reassurance, and they started making their way down the hall. Hobbie and Wes walked slightly in front. "I'm just glad you could come. Wedge really thought highly of you. I know it would have meant a lot to him."

"I came for Wedge, of course, but I mainly came here for you, Tycho."

"What? I didn't die."

"No. But your best friend did."

Tycho didn't have anything to say to that, and he averted his eyes and swallowed. Winter continued to watch his face, squeezing him closer again.

"Well, then," Wes put his hands in his pockets as if to continue on his way, "I suppose we should leave you two to yourselves-"

"No." Three pairs of eyes turned to look at Tycho with surprise. The man's jaw was set, though he tempered Winter's slight alarm by looking at her with soft eyes. "We start planning mission details right now, as soon as I can find an empty briefing room."

Hobbie tried to share a look with Wes, only to grumpily realize his friend was too vacant to notice the attempt at eye contact. "Tych, I thought we had a briefing planned for tomorrow morning. Didn't you say that's when Iella was coming?"

"No. She's here - I'll com her now. Hobbie, get a hold of the Residence Coordinator and find out where the nearest open briefing room is, preferably near the Rogue's residences."

Winter was looking at him sharply. "Tych-"

"We're not going to sit around and wallow in grief, Winter. I've decided. Let me com Iella, and then I can explain what's going on-"

"Don't bother." Tycho looked at her with surprise. Hobbie was already talking on his comlink in the background, and with a sly smile, she sidled closer to him so their hips were touching. "Han found me on the way out. I know about the plan to go back to Yuman. And I'm coming with you."

Tycho's eyes widened. "You're..."

"I'm coming with you, flyboy. Leia doesn't really need me right now, but she does need someone to keep Han from getting himself killed. And who would keep the rest of you flyboys out of trouble?"

A slow grin spread across Tycho's face. "We'll need someone with infiltration expertise."

"Well, then that's what I'm here for. Who were you considering before, Janson?" When Janson didn't respond with a quip, Winter frowned. "Janson?"

"Huh, what?"

"Nevermind."

Tycho thumbed on his comlink. "Hi, Corran? Look, are you with Mirax and Iella? Tell them we're having a meeting. Yes, right now. Hobbie, did you get a briefing room?"

"Room A77, Area 7 is open for the next four hours."

"Perfect. Corran, we're meeting in room A77, area 7 in...20 minutes. Tell Ooryl, will you? Good. See you then. Bye."

He lowered it for a moment, clicked a button, and then raised it back to his mouth. "Inyri? This is Tycho. I want everyone in room A77, area 7 in twenty minutes. All of the Rogues. Copy. See you soon."

---------------------------------------------------------------

Still feeling blank, Gavin walked into the briefing room with Asyr. They hadn't been able to make much sense of what was going on from Inyri's explanation, but Gavin did have an inkling.

Tycho looked up and nodded at them as they came in. "Good, I think that's everyone. Myn, Wes, Hobbie, Inyri, Ooryl, Corran, Asyr, Gavin...wait, do we have Slee?"

"Here." Off to one side, the Ithorian raised left arm, his right arm still resting in a sling due to injuries sustained when his seat ejected.

"Then I'll go ahead and get started. I've decided we're going to get this trip of ours going a bit sooner than planned. For those I haven't told, there actually will be an Intelligence-sponsered mission back to Yuman. That's top secret, so don't say anything stupid and leak it."

He was tapping his fingers quickly on the podium. "We aren't officially a part of that mission yet, but Iella Wessiri is working out details with Cracken, and I see no reason why it shouldn't work in our favor. Currently, Iella has the departure date set for five days from now. I'd like to change that, and make it two days."

Myn Donos partially raised his hand. "Sir, is that realistic? Missions take weeks to prepare -"

"I know, Myn, but I'm banking on Wessiri being extremely capable and driven in her planning. I have good faith."

Slee raised his arm next. "Captain Celchu, if that's the situation, we need to be worrying about our X-wings."

"Understood. I've had Koyi's crew working on them almost nonstop since we docked. We're missing two snubfighters, obviously, and Hobbie's is irreparable at this point. Gavin's will be flight ready in 12 hours." Tycho paused. "Slee, quite a bit depends on how you're healing. If you're flight ready by tomorrow, I'm going to scavenge up something for Lieutenant Klivian to fly. If-"

"Sir, I won't be flying an X-wing on this mission." There was a rustle as all the pilots in the room turned to look at the Ithorian pilot.

Tycho cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I'd like Lieutenant Klivian to fly my X-wing."

"We'll talk about this afterwards."

"No need to, Captain. It's straightforward. It's better for all involved."

After a moment's silence, in which he was obviously weighing Slee's words, Tycho nodded. "Alright, then. Hobbie, you're flying Slee's X-wing." Hobbie craned his neck to look at Slee, who gave him a slow nod. Hobbie returned it with a look of understated gratitude.

"Alright, that settles one issue." Tycho leaned forward on the podium, his fingers still tapping quickly. "But I'll be blunt; we can't start planning mission details until we know more from Iella. However, I want both us and our X-wings ready to go at a moment's notice. This goes for everyone; run several diagnostic tests on your X-wings to make sure there aren't any problems.

"Have your survival suits, your emergency supplies, and your civilian clothes ready, and make sure your blasters and personal equipment are in good order. I also have the basic physical features of Yuman downloaded into the sims. Make sure you get some flight time in the planet's atmosphere and gravity conditions. And most importantly, get lots of sleep and food when you aren't doing the things I just listed. Copy?"

"Copy." "Copy sir."

"Good. Dismissed."

The nine other pilots began standing up and stretching. Tycho noticed Hobbie walking over to talk with Slee. This was good. Immediate action was keeping everyone operating on a functional level, and it didn't allow anyone to sink into a depression or grief of sorts. This was definitely the best way to do things.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Five hundred feet away from the briefing room, Winter and Iella had taken over a small computer lounge. The two were alone, thanks to a few choice words to the previous occupant, a Rodian who had fallen asleep on one of the couches, and the room had been quickly scanned for listening devices and locked from the inside.

They now sat across from each other on the shabby L-shaped couch. Winter, dressed in her civilian clothes, bounced slightly on the cushion and looked at a strange stain with distrust.

"It's just caf, I think," Iella said, smiling at her friend's behavior.

"I hope so. But back on topic. Have you ever led a ground mission before?"

Iella winced. "No. I've always worked as part of a larger team or as an independent. This is...new." And terrifying, though she chose not to say that out loud.

"Iella, I'm positive you're going to be a natural, so I'm glad you're taking on that responsibility. But I don't completely understand something. You yourself said Cracken wanted to wait until security let up, maybe scope the situation out with a few good agents. And you're looking to organize an entire ground mission, complete with manpower and hardware. So, what's the sudden inspiration?"

"Well... there are a couple of reasons." Iella realized her leg was bouncing nervously, and she made an effort to stop. "I know that going in with just one ground contact is a risk, but I feel it's a risk Cracken should be willing to take."

Winter leaned back and crossed her arms, looking incredulous. "Alright, but why? What's down there that's so important?"

"You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Alright, I'll bite. Clones, Winter. We've suspected the Empire had an operation going for some time, but it wasn't until the ground mission that we were able to confirm it. You haven't been kept up to date on this?"

Winter, who had been listening with intense interest, donned a look of frustration. "Remember, Iella, I've spent the last year sitting in on Council meetings and being a personal assistant. Cracken hasn't made an effort to keep me in the loop. Though I had heard the rumors about cloning. Leia's worried it might influence Luke and the twins."

"Well, I can assert that Skywalker is thinking along the same lines. Did you know that he was on _Torlan's Freedom_ during the raid? You did? Well, he hunted me down after the mission. He wanted me to leak him intelligence on the cloning situation so he could try and make a mission of it himself."

The corner of Winter's mouth twitched. "And did you?"

"No! Of course not." Iella sat up straighter in indignation, and then realized she wasn't being completely honest. She averted her eyes and tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear. "Well, not completely."

Her companion went ahead and laughed, which didn't help Iella feel more at ease. "Look, agent...," Winter regained her breath, "leaking information to Luke Skywalker hardly qualifies as breaking your oath of loyalty. He's Leia's brother, for sith's sake."

Enormously relieved at Winter's response, and also seeing a hint of humor in the situation, Iella smiled back. She had been second-guessing her actions in solitude for hours. "Maybe. But either way, he talked me into helping him. I think he's right in wanting to act immediately. Fifty people died getting us that information, and if we play it safe, those Destroyers and the cloning operation might just vanish and make their sacrifices worthless."

Winter, looking elegant even in her civilian clothing, leaned forward with her head down. "I did hear about the deaths in system. I heard about Wedge, too. A lot of people were in that control room with you, you know, and Intelligence rumors travel fast, even if they never leave intelligence."

Iella let that sink in. "Yeah," she swallowed. "After what he did, I felt that talking to Cracken was the least I could do." Walking into that office had been the most terrifying thing she had ever done, but since she knew it paled in comparison to Wedge Antilles' immense act of bravery, she couldn't have walked away.

"So it's true, then. " A sly grin spread across Winter's face.

"What?"

"You demanded a mission from Cracken. As in, walked into his office, stood at attention, and told him what you wanted."

"Well, I guess," Iella responded cautiously, and Winter hooted out a laugh.

"Iella, do you have any idea...ok, never mind. What mission parameters did he give you?

Iella stared. "Parameters?"

"Yes, parameters. Like how many people you can recruit, your ship allotment, all that."

Iella shook her head. "I don't have any parameters. At least, not specifically. I told Cracken I wanted to head a mission, and I told him I wanted to recruit from Intelligence and Star Command. He hasn't said I couldn't, yet." Winter was staring at Iella like she was a crazy woman.

Iella felt her face burning. "I really wanted it."

Winter gave another hoot of disbelieving delight. "You're something else, CorSec, you know that?"

"Thank you?"

"So if you don't have mission parameters," Winter's expression once again became serious, "I'm assuming you have parameters for yourself?"

Iella nodded. "I turned in a rough proposal to Cracken earlier today. I asked for a Lambda shuttle with up-to-date Imperial codes, a ground team of thirty commandoes, at least two of whom can slice Imperial computers and two who can pilot, an astromech droid, a well-maintained set of stormtrooper armor for the commandoes, rations for two months, ammo for two months, um, let's see..."

"Not bad, not bad. And if you're attacked by fighters? Do you have air support? Backup?"

"Well...that's where it gets fuzzy."

Winter shook her head disapprovingly. "Fuzzy mission parameters are a no no. You have to have some backup plan."

"I want Rogue Squadron," Iella blurted out. "And I know Rogue Squadron wants the mission. Problem is, I know if I put that in writing, Cracken will reject it."

"Damn right he will. Once the media finds out that Rogue Squadron is missing its most famous member, they'll start snooping for details, maybe try hunting down the system where it happened. It's a liability."

"I know, but it's a necessary liability. And so I've been struggling with how to word it...if I just have a secret briefing and ask them to come along for the ride, without any official record-"

"They could be all be court-martialed." Winter's brow furrowed.

"No, they won't. Not if they don't know there isn't an official release from Cracken. Then I'll be the only one responsible for breaking orders." Iella was being earnest, but that turned to confusion when her elegant companion responded with laughter.

Iella bristled. "What? I don't see what's funny about that. You don't think I would do it?"

Winter caught her breath and grinned. "Iella, that's very noble of you, but it's completely unnecessary. What are the Rogues good at?"

"Um...flying tiny starfighters and blowing things up?"

"Ok, not what I was looking for, but true. More importantly, they're experts at stretching orders beyond any form of recognizability."

Iella still felt wary. "And..."

"Honestly! C'mon, CorSec, have you never broken an order? Look, if the Rogues act bizarrely, theoretically Tycho is the one faced with court-martial, except that if Star Command tried to get rid of Tycho, they'd have to get rid of _all _the Rogues. Are you starting to see it?"

Comprehension was indeed dawning on Iella. "You really aren't worried about Tycho being court-martialed?"

Winter shook her head. "Nope. He's weathered treason trials. A court-martial is nothing. Just tell the general you're recruiting a squadron of green snub-jockeys...I think Blue Squadron is still around. Then Tycho can pull rank and sneak the Rogues out instead."

"You seem to have a pretty in-depth understanding of the situation." Iella felt suspicious, and that suspicion was validated when Winter winked.

"That's because I've already talked to Tycho about it. I'm coming, by the way. Though only if you don't mind."

Iella gaped. "What? Of course! That would be...that would be incredible!"

"So you don't mind?"

Iella shook her head adamantly, brown hair bouncing. "If I had even remotely known you were available, I would have asked you in a heartbeat."

"Well, it's good you didn't, because I don't want Cracken to know."

That gave Iella pause. "Why not?"

"I'll tell you later, but it has to do with security issues and the Solo children."

"Alright." Iella's spirits soared. Winter's successes in covert operations were legendary among those who knew of her undercover identities. The idea of this woman as a partner and mentor filled Iella with hope and new confidence. "So, if I follow your advice on Rogue Squadron, that solves my air support problem. I'll request scrap shielding for their atmospheric infiltration. There should be enough dogfight flotsam in orbit to camouflage the snubfighters. I still need a commando team that's available and fits the parameters, though."

Winter thought for a moment. "I sat through a Council overview on military personnel a couple weeks ago. If the small print was accurate, Kapp Dendo should be free. He heads a team of thirty-five, only seven of whom are women, which makes passing as stormtroopers more anatomically possible. Ten are non-human, but I'm guessing that won't be a problem. Unless we're caught, of course, but then the gig is up anyways."

"Have I met him before?"

Winter shook her head. "I doubt it. I had quite a few assignments with him after Endor." She paused and picked at one of her nails. "He worked with the Rogues quite a bit, too. They're a good team. And he liked Wedge."

Iella paused. "What does that have to do with it?"

"Well," Winter met her eyes frankly. "It has something to do with it."

Iella didn't answer right away, just meeting her gaze. Finally she looked down, and nodded. "It might have something to do with it."

"To find Wedge's body."

Iella nodded again, trying to hide her still raw grief. "You know, Wedge and I weren't...we weren't together or anything, but he helped me a lot. We were close. And I never got to repay him, really."

Winter reached out to squeeze Iella's knee. It was a slightly awkward gesture from the normally reserved woman. "I got you, CorSec. We'll go back and give those Imperials hell." The corner of her mouth lifted up in a smile. "Especially if Luke Skywalker is coming."

Iella sent Winter a cautionary look. "Yes, but keep that quiet. I don't want it to look like the mission was Skywalker's idea, or Cracken might dig his heels in."

"Understood. So Han and Luke together, eh? I've heard they're quite the team."

Iella felt some of the stress return to her stomach. "I still don't know how to account for Han Solo wanting to come. Not only is he a civilian, he's not supposed to know me in any way-"

"Alright, Iella, listen to me. You want to be in charge of full covert operations? Not just undercover work? Rule number one. Take what you can get and run with it. Don't waste time accounting for it. I assure you, it will drive Cracken mad, but it does the man some good not to know everything sometimes. And when the mission is over, if you've failed you'll be dead and explaining won't matter, and if you've succeeded Cracken won't be able to complain in light of the final product. Get it?"

"Got it. I used to think you got ahead in this department by doing what your superiors wanted."

Winter smiled. "I doubt very much that's what you did in CorSec, and trust me, just take the steps you feel will make the mission successful."

"And if those steps don't lead to a successful mission?"

"With the two of us involved?" Winter flashed white teeth. "I can't promise success, which is hard to define anyways, but I'll give you this much: it's going to be interesting."

"Interesting." Iella plopped back onto the ugly cushion, shaking her head. "I don't know if that makes the stress go away, but I can start with that." She stood up from the couch, and with a groan, stretched out her muscles. Her spine cracked loudly. "Ouch. Alright, so Kapp Dendo. You think he's in system?" She settled down at the nearby computer console, pushing a cold cup of caf away from the keyboard.

"He probably reported to the main base at Korleke. If you contact him now, they could be here in eight hours, maybe? Just tell him Winter heard good things and recommended him for the job."

"Can do." Iella punched away at the keyboard while boxes and text flashed across the screen. "You really think I can pull this off?"

"Absolutely."

"Sithspawn, I hope so. Otherwise we'll all end up dead."

"Trust me, Iella, we aren't going to end up dead." Winter stood up and stretched as well. "Ok. If you don't mind, I'm off to find Captain Stupid and make sure he's doing alright. And by the way, if Han is coming, that means the Millenium Falcon is coming with him."

"I was wondering about that. We'll have to work up a basic hull disguise. We have to plan for the Pulsar Skate, as well."

"Meet you later tonight?"

"Can do. Hey Winter? I'm glad you're here."

"Me to. I wouldn't want to miss this for anything."


	14. Introductions

The next morning Corran wandered blearily into the cafeteria for breakfast. Mirax had woken up early to make sure no-one had messed with her ship, and she still hadn't made it to breakfast before he did. He hoped there weren't any problems, especially not with Wedge's contraband hidden in one of the smuggling compartments.

Over at one of the far tables, he saw Gavin reach up and wave him over. Several of the other Rogues were there as well, including Ooryl, Myn, and Asyr. He waved halfheartedly back and took a second to fill a cup of caf before heading over.

"Good morning," Ooryl greeted him quietly as he pulled a chair up to the table.

"Morning." He winced at the screeching noise the chair made on the ground, and then deposited himself in it with a thump. "What's for breakfast?"

"I think it's leftover machine oil," Asyr sniffed, looking pointedly at the brown mass on her plate. "You're better off with the pastries."

"I think I'll stick with just caf for now, thanks," Corran decided.

Looking tired and unshaven himself, Gavin looked over with bleary interest. "Is Mirax coming?"

"Yeah, she was checking on the Skate." Corran paused when he heard familiar voices, and twisted in his seat to look around. "Hey, what are the old-timers doing over there?" He made out two familiar figures getting food from the kitchen and standing with another woman. They were too busy talking to take a seat.

"Ooryl thinks that Lieutenant Janson and Lieutenant Klivian are getting breakfast with someone else."

"Well, yeah, I gathered that much. Who's the woman?"

"You don't know?" Gavin looked surprised. "That's Plourr Ilo. You know, one of the old Rogues before the reformation?"

"What, really?" Corran peered over with new interest. "An old Rogue, huh? I recognize the name, but how come I don't recognize the fa...oh, wait."

"Recognize her?" Asyr asked curiously.

"Oh, I recognize her. It just took me a while because of the longer hair. She's hard to forget."

At that moment he saw Mirax's dark-haired figure enter the cafeteria, but just as he was raising his hand to get her attention, she recognized Plourr. They watched as Mirax threw up her hands and shouted a greeting, and the two trotted over to talk with each other. Corran realized it made him feel a bit peevish. He turned around to the table and slumped in his chair with his caf.

The others were too busy watching the reunion to notice. Asyr looked a bit star-struck. "Is it true she's a princess? I heard that she left the squadron to take control of an entire planet."

Ooryl nodded, his mandibles clicking. "Ooryl heard she could take a grown Weequay in a fight, with no weapons. For a human female, that is quite impressive."

"Yeah, well, I saw it happen and it wasn't that impressive," Corran informed him.

The group turned to blink at him in surprise, and Corran shrugged dismissively. "I met her while I was still with CorSec. We had to rescue them after they got in a fight with some local trouble." He shrugged again. "Let's just say it was a good thing Iella and I showed up when we did."

Myn frowned. "Well, local trouble or not, taking down a grown Weequay is no small feat-" he stopped and Corran looked up to see the other group walking towards them. Plourr and Mirax were talking together as they walked behind Wes and Hobbie.

"Hey, guys," Hobbie said. "Mind if we join you?"

"Well, since it looks like there aren't any more seats in the cafeteria, please do." Gavin scooted his chair over to make room, his attempt at humor referring to the largely empty cafeteria.

Hobbie responded with a wry smile, before nodding at the newest arrival. "Has everyone met Plourr? She flew with the Rogues a couple years back."

"No." "Good to meet you." "It's an honor."

Plourr shook hands and learned their names with a smile, and the group finally situated themselves around the rectangular white table. "Good to see the company the squadron keeps these days."

"Improved company," Hobbie intoned, and either Plourr didn't hear or pretended not too.

Corran was pleased to get Mirax back by his side. She grabbed his hand and smiled warmly at him. There was still a strong sadness in her eyes though the busy act of socializing helped keep the underlying reason for their reunion camouflaged.

Plourr noticed their hands and cocked an eyebrow at Mirax. "You're with a Rogue? What? I thought you were the sane one."

Mirax sniffed. "Don't worry, Plourr, this new batch of pilots is much saner than the old one. And the men are cuter."

Corran stiffened at the searching and judgmental look Plourr was raking him with. "Really. Cuter than Hobbie? I don't know if that's saying much. And I really don't know about this one, Terrik. He looks a little...rigid."

Mirax looked defensive at Plourr's questioning. "He's a very fine boyfriend, thank you very much, Plourr."

Corran continued to glower as recognition slowly rolled across Plourr's face. "Hey...CorSec!"

"That's right. Former CorSec. We've met."

Plourr gaped first at Mirax, then at Corran again, then at Mirax. "You're going with _CorSec?_ What, have you gone mad?"

Feeling Corran's grip tighten in protest, Mirax sent him a warning look before turning back to Plourr with a smile. "Not mad. I like to think that between my illegality and his legality, we find a nice middle-ground of normality. Kind of...Gavin level."

"We've passed him, Plourr," Hobbie informed the incredulous woman. "He's alright. Right, Wes?"

"Hm? Oh, right. Yeah, Horn checks out." Corran realized he had been expecting the phrase 'Wedge approves,' but it seemed none of them had the heart to say it.

Plourr still looked ornery, but she finally seemed to accept Mirax's choice. "Alright. I guess if...Celchu thought he was alright, he's alright." She extended a hand across the table to Corran. "Truce?"

Corran noticed that Gavin was trying very hard to contain laughter by holding a mug in front of his face. He resisted the urge to kick the young man under the table. Instead he reached out and cautiously shook the proffered hand. "I'm not sure what the truce is for, but I'll take it."

"The truce is me deciding not to flay your CorSeckian ass if you do anything to make Wedge's kid sister unhappy, that's what."

Gavin couldn't help it, and sprayed liquid back into his cup with a snort. Asyr tried to secretly admonish him by jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow.

Wes rolled his eyes. "Ignore her, Corran. She's a diplomat now. All scary words and no punch."

"She can still punch, but she won't, because it's below her professional dignity." Tycho had walked up to the group without them noticing, and the table greeted him with tired smiles and 'good mornings'.

He nodded sedately in return. "Good morning. Can you make room for one more?"

When the chairs had squeezed tighter, he leaned forward with his hands clasped and his elbows on the table. "I wanted to tell you first thing that the mission is on. Iella and Winter worked out all the details last night. We're leaving tonight."

The entire table gawked in various degrees of amazement.

"Tonight?" Asyr leaned around Gavin to look at the captain. "But we don't even have all the X-wings ready."

"They'll be ready," Tycho asserted. "And we're even going to be able to get spare parts onto the shuttle."

"So," Mirax let go of Corran's hand and leaned forward on the table as well, all business. "What should I do to get the Skate ready?"

Tycho winced. "Currently, the plan has you being orbital backup. Boring, I know, but the Millenium Falcon is better armed than the Skate."

Mirax didn't complain. "If I'm helping out, I'll do it. Though any chance you could get a few more radio-controlled blasters on the top deck? If you want me as military backup, you at least need to get me some batteries."

"I'll work on it. I'll ask Han, actually."

Plourr blinked. "Wait...Han Solo? What's he have to do with it?"

Tycho brushed some hair off his forehead. "He's coming with the Falcon. They'll be the main backup for the shuttle and commandoes on planet. Winter is working up some sort of hull camaflouge- wait, there she is, actually."

The white-haired woman noticed them and began striding purposely in their direction. Corran cheered at the sight of their old acquaintance, and many of the other Rogues, who had worked with her on Coruscant as well, sent her happy smiles of greeting.

She smiled in return. "Good morning, everyone. Good to see all of you again. Ooryl, Myn, Corran. Plourr? I haven't seen you in quite some time. It's good you could come."

Plourr reached over and shook her hand in greeting. "I had to convince my council that the planet wouldn't implode if I left for awhile, but it's good for them. So, what's my assignment?"

Winter didn't bother pulling up a seat to the packed table, and she winced. "You're not going to be happy with... wait, backtrack." She gave Tycho a look. "Did you screen for listening bugs?"

Tycho looked up from the cup of caf he had stolen from Gavin. "What? Oh...oops."

Winter gave a long-suffering sigh and pulled a scanning device out of her breast pocket. She turned it on and waved it slowly over the table, finally nodding in satisfaction and putting it back where it came from. "Where was I? Oh, Plourr. We need you waiting with Mirax and the Pulsar Skate in the asteroid belt."

"What? What the hell sort of good can I do back there?"

"The Skate needs fighter protection, Plourr. We're getting you an A-wing."

"An A-wing?" Plourr looked like she'd rather pilot a diseased mynock.

"Yes, an A-wing. Don't panic, it does you X-jocks some good to experiment with different ships. Keeps you sharp. And besides, since the Skate is officially a civilian ship, it wouldn't check out to have a New Republic military escort. Which is why having a retired Rogue is perfect."

Corran couldn't help it. He smiled at Plourr. "An A-wing's speed will help compensate for the speed you've lost in retirement."

Mirax kicked him hard with her heel in the shin, and trying to hold his grin through the pain, he tried to match the death stare Plourr was directing his way. He could take her in a fight. Who did she think she was, strong-arming her way back into a squadron that she had abandoned years ago?

"Corran, cool it." Tycho admonished. "You too, Plourr. You may not officially be in the squadron, but if you want to be a part of the mission you need to behave yourself."

Plourr sent him a withering look. "Behave myself? Well, I suppose that won't be too hard when I'm stuck floating around a rock the entire time. Even if it is better than council meetings."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The entire group soon got up to leave, with Tycho doing his best to mediate the acidic comments passing between Corran and Plourr, and Gavin and Asyr in not-so-silent stitches over the exchange. In the end Hobbie and Wes sat at the table alone, surrounded by abandoned mugs and half-eaten breakfasts.

Hobbie shook his head in disbelief at the departing figures. "Well, that was unnecessary. I thought Horn and Ilo had gotten over rookie ego-clashing. I haven't seen Corran that bad since..."

"Bror Jace."

"Yeah. Or Plourr that snappy since she first met Elscol."

"She's just upset. They'll calm down later."

"I hope Tycho can keep them in check." Hobbie looked worried. "Corran might listen to him, but the only person who could actually get Plourr to-"

"Yeah, I know. Tycho's doomed."

"You're starting to sound like me, Wes."

"Yeah, and you sound like me. You're just Mr. Chatty lately."

Hobbie tried not to show how much his friend's tone of voice stung. "I'm just trying to compensate for your lack of conversation."

"Ah."

"You don't need to be an asshole."

"Fine." Wes looked up with sudden rancor. "What do you want me to say? That Wedge is alive and can keep things running? Sithspawn, Hobbie, you know full well things are going to fall apart. The Rogues are a bunch of miserable washups and egomaniacs, and the only reason it worked was because of Wedge."

"It will still work, Wes, we've got Tycho-"

"Sithspawn, Hobbie, you know Tycho's falling apart without Wedge. He's on farking autopilot. We're going back because none of us can think about anything else. We're worthless right now."

Hobbie didn't say anything as he sat with his arms crossed and his eyes smoldering.

"I saw what he did with the Wraiths, Hobbie." Wes was leaning forward with his muscles bunched and his eyes smoldering back. "They were a bunch of washed-up nothings, just like Plourr was, and Inyri was, hell, even Myn Donos was a lost cause. He made them into something. They listened to him, Hobbie. They actually listened to him. We can't do that. Tycho can't do that. Without Wedge, we just dissolve back into a bunch of overcharged personalities that can't work as a team. Everyone will leave or get picked off one by one until we're left teaching nerf-herders how to turn on simulators."

Hobbie shook his head. "Sorry, Wes, I don't see it that way. We're not going to fall apart, and if we are, we've got one mission left to find out. I say if we come out of this working as a squadron, then we're still the Rogues. If not, then maybe you're right and we're just a pair of war relics past their expiration date. But we can't know yet, not until we've done this."

They were quiet for a while, Wes still bunched and tense and Hobbie returning the look stubbornly. The standoff lasted for at least twenty seconds, until the anger finally started to melt out of Janson's frame. He sagged in his seat and his eyes unfocused as he stared at the half-eaten pastry on the table. Then, to Hobbie's complete surprise and relief, the corner of his mouth turned up with a hint of amusement. "You know, we really are starting to sound like each other."

"Yeah. The same thing used to happen to me when I spent too much time with my mom."

Wes sat back and laughed, and Hobbie smiled in surprise, pleased to see his friend show some of his normal self. But the laughter faded too quickly and Wes' posture revealed a man that looked beaten and exhausted. "Let's go back. If we don't, I think it's going to eat at me until I'm permanently as cheerful as Myn Donos."

Hobbie graced that idea with a look of displeasure. "Never. Two Myn Donos wouldn't be able to carry that gunner comedy show you had planned."

"The 'Two Snipers and a Gun of Fun' show?" Wes fiddled with a mug and then smiled again. "I'd forgotten about that. You still think Viacorp would pick up the scenario for syndication?"

"Not if there were two Myn Donos in it."

"Good point. Well, I think I know what the first episode would be."

"What?"

"'Myn and Wes journey back to ensure their enemies enter a living hell.' The hilarity begins tonight at twelve."

"I don't think I'd watch. The name is too long. And it doesn't sound very funny."

"Oh, it'll be funny. Just not for the people who get in the main character's way."


	15. The Hanger

Pilots, mechanics, technicians, and commandos filled the hanger with a frenetic energy as they milled about attending to the task of mission preparation. Tycho was talking to one of the head mechanics, when he noticed that Tork Laklee, the young pilot from Blue Squadron, was standing awkwardly to one side, waiting for an opening. Tycho ignored him until he was finished with the mechanic, then finally turned and faced him. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The slightly pudgy pilot seemed to be gathering confidence. "Um, yes sir. With your permission, I'd like to be asked to be included on this mission, sir."

"And what mission would that be?"

"To Yuman, sir."

Tycho froze, and after stifling his initial horror, grabbed the young man by his clothing and roughly yanked him into the shadow of his X-wing. "What the _hell_ makes you think we're going back to Yuman, Laklee?"

"Don't worry, sir, I haven't told anyone else," Tork spat back in a panic. "I know it's classified-"

"You need to tell me how you came up with this conclusion. Now."

"Sir, I don't see why it matter-"

"Don't see why it matters?" Tycho was hissing in an effort to keep their voices quiet. "The destination of this mission is classified. If something has leaked, dozens of lives could be forfeit-"

"Nothing's been leaked, sir!" Tork looked as if this conversation was _not _going the way he had envisioned it. "I kind of, well, _assumed_ you were going back."

Tycho slowly released his grip on the youth's clothing, and graced him with a completely incredulous look. "You _assumed?_"

"Yes sir. I know the Rogues never leave a man behind, sir, not unless they know he's dead. And I started noticing secret briefings, and Plourr Ilo is still hanging around, and I saw her arguing with her entourage, and-"

"You understand you're to tell your _theories_ to no one. At all. Ever."

Tork swallowed, blinked quickly, and finally blurted out what he really wanted to say. "Captain Celchu, I want to come on the mission."

Tycho had to stop from gaping at the sheer nerve of the kid, and crossed his arms imposingly instead. "May I ask why?"

Tork took a breath, and straightened himself. "Wedge Antilles might still be alive down there, sir. I want to help make sure he comes back."

"Wedge is dead, Laklee. Stone dead."

"Then why are you going back?"

Tycho gave him an icy look. "That's classified."

Tork suddenly flung his hands out as if desperately trying to express something his vocabulary wouldn't allow. "Wedge Antilles can't be dead, because if he's dead, then all of us are as good as dead. He survived two Death Stars, sir, he's proof that it's not impossible to survive! And he's our leader, sir. He's brave, he's brilliant, he looks out for his men, he's…he's everything! No-one like that just _dies_, sir. We have to go back and get him." Finished, Tork sucked in breath, looking at Tycho with shining earnest eyes.

Tycho shook his head. "No-one like that just dies? You know that's not how it works, Tork."

"It is, sir. I fail to see how Wedge Antilles could be killed in a ground-based explosion. And I want to go back with you and prove it. He's our hero, sir. He's…"

"Did you ever meet him?"

Tork looked slightly caught off guard. "Uh, no sir. Not directly at least."

"And yet you claim to know so much about him, Laklee."

The youth looked slightly confused. "Everyone knows about Wedge Antilles, sir."

Tycho sighed inwardly. The kid clearly just hero-worshipped Wedge. But he also made a deeper point; to the peers in the soul-sucking profession of piloting snubfighters, to the rebels throwing their lives by the hundreds at a superior force, Wedge was more than just a hero. He was a symbol of survival against impossible odds.

And now that symbol had been destroyed, and the despair of mortality was sinking in. Except for the few in denial.

"You want to see for yourself that Wedge is dead," he said, with a strange expression on his face.

Tork shook his head, clearly thinking such an outcome was impossible. "Commander Antilles survived two Death Stars on skill alone, sir. He's alive."

Tycho stood silent for awhile, looking at the head-strong pilot and thinking. It was a complicated issue. Tork Laklee knew the nature of the mission; leave him here, and he might blurt something out and threaten their security. If he stayed behind, his improbable optimism would mess with the moral of the other pilots. The last thing he needed was a rumor circulating that Wedge Antilles was still alive and roaming the galaxy. It would be too painful. When you're dead, you're dead.

But the downside of bringing him…Tycho found his eyes traveling down Tork's rather soft and pudgy body. "Have you ever trained for a ground mission?"

"Um, no sir." Sensing an opening, Tork practically jumped forward in eagerness. "But I can fight on the ground if I need to, sir! I'm a good shot with a blaster."

"There's a reason Rogue Squadron is unique, Laklee. Look at the pilots around you."

Tork blinked, and obediently cast his gaze to the nearest pilot, who just happened to be Wes Janson. They watched as Wes stuffed his duffel-bag into his X-wing storage compartment, and after that was completed, slung a dangerous looking sniper rifle from his shoulder and jammed it in on top of the bag. He then crouched smoothly and began fishing through a pile of equipment, his sinewy arms flexing with tendons and muscles that moved as his fingers moved. He pulled out a vibroblade, examined it, shook his head, and pulled out a bigger one. Upon seeing the cruel shape of the blade, the burly man smiled in approval and yanked off his boot to begin fitting the knife inside. Tycho thought the display made his point quite well, though Janson probably ruined it a bit when he smelled his boot and scrunched up his nose in disgust. Well, moving on.

"What do you see, Laklee?"

The young pilot's eyes were as large as saucers as he stared at Wes. He'd probably never thought about "pilot squadron with ground-based warfare capability," the Rogues' official classification. "Um, I see weapons, sir."

"Exactly. I'll be blunt, Tork. While I don't doubt your basic abilities as a pilot, this mission requires certain skills that you just don't have."

Tork's face ran through a fascinating gamut of emotions, going from stunned, to worried, to blindly determined again. "If Wedge Antilles could do it, I can learn, sir."

_This kid would have driven Wedge nuts,_ Tycho couldn't help thinking. Which brought the death of his best friend crashing down again. Damn. How could he refuse this kid a chance to…well, he wasn't even exactly sure what Tork wanted. But crush his hopes, his high esteem of Wedge…could he do that, and still sleep with himself at night? Even though Tork's hopes would just have to be crushed in the end anyways, he suddenly didn't have a choice.

"Alright, Laklee. You can come." Tork's face lit up like he'd been plugged into a power-generator. "But you have to stay quiet and follow orders exactly, even if those orders entail staying out of the way. Can you do this?"

Tork nodded furiously, bug-eyed.

"It'll be good to have a reserve pilot anyways. Lieutenant, a moment of your time -" Tycho waved over a minor officer. "Tell Major Jefau that Tork Laklee will be taking a leave of absence, under my orders. Tell him to assign Laklee's starfighter to one of the other Blue Squadron pilots."

Tork looked about to say something, but he thought better of it and snapped his mouth shut. Tycho leaned closer to size him up. "Worried about losing your squadron position?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Now pack your gear and report to Ms. Terrik at the Pulsar Skate. Don't talk to _anyone_ in the meantime. She leaves in thirty minutes sharp, so if you miss the Skate, you stay here."

"The Pulsar Skate, sir?"

"You're now an official crew member." Tycho clapped Tork on the back with a sour smile. "Just tell her you're a gift from Captain Celchu."

"I'm not a pilot, sir?"

Tycho stared, and Tork decided not to press the issue, instead bringing his slightly pudgy hand to his forehead in a zealous salute. "Yes sir! Absolutely sir! I won't let you down sir! I promise you won't regret it!" The pilot saluted one more time to his slightly irritated superior and turned to scurry away. He only made it about twenty feet before running directly into an R5 unit, which blatted at him furiously and tried to shock him. Tork regained his balance, turned and saluted one more time to Tycho, and took off again at an ungainly run.

Tycho, arms hanging loose at his sides, watched him go in bemusement, a sudden depression descending on him again. Wes wandered up from his right, wiping grease off his hands on a rag. "Well, that was interesting. What'd you do to make him so happy?"

"I'm letting him come."

"What?" Wes looked at him incredulously. "Really? Tych, the kid looks like a complete clam."

Clam, slang term for a pilot that grew soft from never leaving the shell of their cockpit (and therefore developing the physical prowess of blob of pudgy flesh), described a significant portion of Star Command's squadrons. Tycho sighed. "I know. I think he'll stay out of the way, though. I'm giving him to Mirax."

"She'll be thrilled, I'm sure." Wes snorted. "Hey, by the way-" He pulled a vibroblade out of the waist-band on his flight suit and looked down at his feet. "Do you think the vibroblade would look sexier in the left or right boot? I definitely climb out of my X-wing with the left leg showing first, but my left side already has my blaster holster, which makes it look unbalanced..."

"Wes, I thought the whole point of the knife in the boot was to make it unseen."

Wes shook his head. "Unless I have to pull out my vibroblade AND wield my blaster at the same time. Then side does matter, especially considering some of the people on this mission. Have you seen some of Kapp's female commandoes walking around? Wowza! Definitely worth a little aesthetic preparation."

Tycho stared in utter disbelief. "Sometimes I don't understand how you can be even remotely competent at what you do."

Wes shrugged. "What can I say. innate talent."

"Right. Look, why don't you go make sure all the astromechs are loaded."

He was answered with a salute. "Sure thing, Tych." And with one last dazzling, slightly hyper-manic grin, Wes trotted off to attend to his duties. Despite himself, Tycho smiled. Good old Wes. He always had a joke, something to take their minds off what was really going on.

Tycho couldn't help wondering how long it would take for Wes to start calling him boss. Or if it was even possible. The mere thought of anyone but Wedge earning that title made his gut roil in distress, and he realized maybe Tork was right. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't be dead, simply because they needed him.

--

Koyi Komad breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled her head out of the stuffy electronics box and into the fresher air of the hanger. She'd finally decided that Gavin's X-wing was battle-ready, and as his ship was the last that needed major repairs, the hard work was done.

"Well if it isn't Koyi Komad, the most shapely grease-monkey in the New Republic."

Koyi turned in disbelief to see a dirty combat boot on her toolkit, and followed the frame up to see the infamous Kapp Dendo striking a ridiculously heroic pose. She cocked a wry eyebrow, before keeping her cool and hiding her smile as she finished cleaning her hands and climbed to her feet. "Well if it isn't Kapp Dendo, the New Republic's biggest go-to boy for death and destruction. Still alive, I see."

They both kept the nonchalant farce going for a few more seconds, before they couldn't stop the huge grins from breaking out on their faces. "Kapp, it's so good to see you! How are you?"

The two old comrades pulled each other into a hug. "I'm still alive, which I'll admit is a pretty good accomplishment. What about you? It's been years, Komad!"

"Has it really been years? I guess it has." Koyi motioned to one of the small motorized hanger transports nearby, and they both sat down on the edge, Koyi settling down with an exhausted 'oomf'. They were situated on a large upraised section of the hanger, so they could actually see down to the bustle below, and see the shuttle and X-wings being prepared for the next mission. "I guess I stopped seeing you when you stopped working with the Rogues. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be supervising your men or something?"

The brawny Devaronian shrugged. "My people know what they're doing. And as a correction, remember I'm not officially working with the Rogues for this mission. Right now, we're _officially_ flying out in that Lambda with Blue Squadron. Remember?" He winked, and Koyi smiled and shook her head.

"Right, forgive me. The Rogues are just going on a basic scouting mission." Koyi shook her head in bemusement. "I'm especially excited to see how they explain this one to the higher ups."

"Hmm." Kapp looked back out to the hanger, with its seemingly frantic action and disorder. Kapp, however, knew that underneath the chaos was order. "Hey-" he suddenly perked up and honed in like a hawk on something in the distance. "Is that...no...is that Plourr Ilo?!"

"Huh?" Koyi craned her neck, and sure enough, there was a long-haired version of the woman of Kapp's interest. She was standing amongst several people near the landing dock of the Pulsar Skate, and fittingly enough, looked like she was in an argument of some sort. " Wow, it's good old Plourr. I must have missed her at the funeral."

"Damn, even from this distance..." Kapp shook his head in worshipful memory. "That, Koyi Komad, is a woman."

"Oh, and I'm what? A mynock?"

"Ah, don't take it personally, you're one sexy lady. But Plourr Ilo." Kapp smiled and his eyes turned misty in memory. "Did I ever tell you how we first met? She knocked me out."

"With her dazzling baldness and charming attitude?"

"It was a superbly executed uppercut to the jaw, actually."

Koyi rolled her eyes. "You do realize that Plourr Ilo is probably as romantic as a Horthician pole dancer."

"Romance? Is there anything more romantic than a rough sparring match late into the night?"

"Yes, Kapp, there is, but I doubt such things would interest you. And you do realize she married a sensitive aristocrat. And anyways, aren't you dating someone right now?"

Kapp looked slightly amazed. "I haven't seen you in years, but you still know the gossip. Yeah, I've got a nice girl over in inventory. She's real sweet. No complaints."

"Well, aren't you the lucky one." Koyi slumped slightly, grousing. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a date in this department? I am so, so sick of one night stands. God!"

"Really. I would have thought a gorgeous lady surrounded by dozens of male mechanics wouldn't have a problem."

"Problem? Find one mechanic, just one, who knows what the Yotshrelver Banshees are. They have about the same knowledge of culture as I do of Bothan biology. I can't even think of the last time I went on a real date. Wait, I take that back." Koyi looked at Kapp with unhappy irony. "We went to the cantina, and he talked about a new brand of power converters for two hours."

"Romantic by his standards, no doubt. Who are the Yotshrelver Banshees?"

Koyi gave up and sighed again. "The Yotshrelver Banshees are the most famous instrumental band in human culture. Not a culture man?"

"I'm a fighting man, myself. Hey, didn't Plourr marry?"

"I already told you, to a nice sensitive aristocrat. I bet he's good for her."

Kapp bristled. "Good for her? A dynamite woman marrying some pansy rich boy? You've got to be kidding."

"A woman as insane as Plourr needs someone to ground her. And besides, I still remember her wedding, and whenever she was around that guy, she blushed."

"Well, there you go. Proof that she's ashamed of her choice."

"Thank you for affirming my belief that males are absolutely hopeless. It means she's in love, laser-brains. How do men not understand these things?"

"You're too picky, Koyi, that's your problem. You can't expect to find sensitive men fighting a war. People here are too busy fighting to spend time on romance or culture."

"I thought I could, once." Koyi sighed mysteriously, and Kapp perked up with new interest. Koyi noticed with a raised eyebrow. "Remember how I met the Rogues? I'm on Mrrllst, waitressing at a hub for some of the best artistic minds of our age, spending the rest of my time immersed in academics. And here come these handsome, young and passionate fighting men, doing something for a great cause I hadn't even realized existed. I was young, and I'll admit, infatuated enough that I followed them here."

"So why not just date Rogue pilots? If mechanics are out of the question."

"Because they're crazy."

"Oh come on, they can't be that crazy. Celchu settled down. What's wrong with...ok, for example, what's wrong with Wes Janson?"

Koyi raised an eyebrow at him, as if weighing his question. "Alright, I'll play. This is a solely hypothetical discussion, you realize, I'm not revealing true crushes. Wes is funny and handsome, but he's a hardened veteran, and worst of all, a sniper. I wouldn't want to deal with the repressed trauma. Plus, he has the musical taste of a ten year old boy."

Kapp laughed, and moved on to the second subject. "Harsh. I didn't think you'd pull the repressed trauma card, but you're probably right. Alright, then. Hobbie Klivian."

"Dour, occasionally depressive, though he does have decent taste in music. But still, it wouldn't work."

"These men are the heart-throbs of the New Republic propaganda machine, and you're just tossing them aside like bad meat! If that's not picky, Koyi-"

"I know these men pretty damn well, Kapp, and it wouldn't work."

"Alright, I believe you, but this is still fascinating, especially since I'm going to be working with them again. What about Celchu...I'm no judge of men, but if I were, I'd say he's one helluva looker-"

"Janson has war trauma, which comes out from time to time, but Celchu has too much emotional trauma going on. And he's gotten too melancholy over the last couple years."

"Plourr?"

"Are you kidding? I thought I already answered that question."

"Fine, fine, that leaves her to me, anyways. Let's see, old Rogues, then...Would you have dated Dllr?"

"In a heartbeat."

"Really!" Kapp looked at her with great interest. "That suprises me."

"Now there was someone with taste! He was romantic, witty, psychologically grounded, smart, had phenomenal taste in music. It wouldn't have worked, though. I'm not particularly attracted to short people."

"Gavin Darklighter."

"Too young. Completely uneducated."

"Nawara Ve-"

"No. Why does everyone assume I would like Nawara Ven? Just because we're the same species...I'm sorry, I'm not going to rant. But Ven is a lawyer, and not only that, I think he's extremely boring. Sorry."

"Antilles? He was single." Kapp's face had become much more serious, though the question was framed casually.

Koyi shook her head. "No. When I first met him on Mrllst, he was amazing, just like the other Rogues were. But to date? Wedge looked calm and in control, right? But working under him, you started to see how crazy he actually was. The man spent hours in here, obsessively micro-managing, making sure everything was as perfect as possible." Koyi paused, thinking. "Plus...he's out of my league. I think he's out of everyone's league, I think that's why he was single. And the bad thing is, he could have used a girlfriend. And he's too shy to actually pursue people himself. _Was_ too shy. Sithspit. Sorry...look, can we change topics?"

"Yeah. So if you aren't romantically interested in anyone, why are you still here again?"

"No one else can handle the Rogues. Do you know how hard it is for me to keep my mechanics for more than a few months? They all leave."

"What, why? Working for Wedge Antilles and Rogue Squadron is a great honor."

"Which is why they apply in the first place, but none of them can handle the pressure. You don't sleep as a Rogue mechanic, not until everything is perfect. You can't let the machines go unchecked; it's not like other squadrons that do mainly surveillance and patrolling. And the pilots' mood swings can be difficult to manage unless you're at peer level, like me.

Koyi shook her head in dramatic exasperation. "You should just hear the lecture I have to give to all new recruits." Koyi began listing off her fingers. "Never leave any hatches open on Klivian's X-wing; it upsets his sensibilities. Don't touch the music channels on their hyper-space players. Ever. If Wes Janson wants you to stay up late painting someone's X-wing pink, talk to me first, and then don't do it."

Dendo stared. "You're joking."

"It happened once," Koyi shrugged. "And I have to give a whole side-lesson on astromech units. Like, never touch Corran Horn's R2 unless he's there to supervise, or you stand a chance of getting shot in the face. Never change the paint job on an R5, even if they look like they went through a metal shredder unit."

Kapp was listening with greatly amused interest. "Why's that?"

"You have no idea how attached these jockies get to their droids. Makes maintenance a nightmare. I don't blame them, though; their lives do depend on them."

"What happens when a droid gets blown up; I thought they had to punch out all the time?"

"We hope the droid is salvageable." Koyi suddenly became indrawn, smiling sadly. "We managed to rescue most of Gate, though."

"Who's Gate?"

"Commander Antilles' astromech. Klivian was flying the X-wing and punched out. The poor droid doesn't know what to do with itself; it keeps roaming the hanger making these sad beeping noises. There, see those astromechs over there?" She pointed to where a bashed up R5 and a shinier R2 unit were engaged in some kind of electronic conversation. The red R5 was chittering loudly, and when a technician attached a magnetic crane to hoist the R2 into an X-wing, the R5 began twirling around frantically, clearly upset. Koyi quirked a sad smile. "Poor little guy. We've been keeping it in the spare parts room. No one has the heart to erase its memory."

Kapp shook his head in wonder, and after a moment's silence, decided to keep the conversation moving. "Wow. And I thought I was high maintenance."

Koyi shrugged. "Like I said, a lot of the other mechanics get fed up and just transfer out."

"But you don't?"

"Of course not." Koyi looked faintly horrified at that idea, when applied to herself. "Look. Those pilots have to fly those machines into deadly situations, and their lives depend on them. Who are we to claim we can't fix that minor problem because it would be beyond our day shift? We aren't risking our lives."

Kapp nodded, understanding completely. "You're a good woman, Komad. They're damn lucky they have you."

"Yeah, maybe." She paused and looked down at her hands. "When they come back alive, that's enough of a reward. Except sometimes they don't, and...well, then I start to question what I'm doing here."

A burly arm pulled Koyi into a one-sided hug. As they sat there, their eyes followed the beat up R5 unit, Gate, as it rolled sadly into view, making soft, almost confused beeping noises to itself. It seemed not to notice anything or anyone, and it bumped twice into minor obstacles before rolling on as if in the greatest of depressions.

Koyi swallowed, and Kapp's face looked older. "Hey, kid, we'll try and bring them all back alive for you. This time they've got me watching their backs. Deal?"

Koyi nodded, smiled lightly, and played with the tip of one of her lekku. "Deal. And you bring yourself back alive, too, alright? Deal?"

"Deal." Kapp gave her a firm pat on the shoulder, and then stood and stretched, reaching for his comlink. "Weeder? Is all the equipment stowed? Good. Go ahead and start getting people settled in. Just make sure they don't break into the rations, not when there's a cantina two minutes away. Good. Out."

He stowed his comlink, and reshouldered his green field pack. "And try and get yourself a real date, why don't you. I would offer my own services, but-"

"Kapp, I'd rather date a mechanic, no offense."

"None taken; my resilient ego will bounce back. Take care?"

"Take care, Kapp."

The Devaronion saluted and jauntily disappeared into hanger. Koyi sighed, and fought the feeling that overcame her at all of these send-offs; the open question of whether these brave and insane people would ever come back.

--

Hobbie walked by Wes. The man was staring blankly as R2's bustled by into their respective locations. "Wes?" He changed his route and walked over. "Are you ok?"

"What? Oh, hey Hobbie."

Hobbie waited for an answer to his earlier question. "Well?"

"What?"

"Are you ok?"

"Oh, yeah! Yeah, I'm doing all right. Could really use some strong caf right now, though."

Hobbie narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer to study his friend's face. "Hey Wes, when's the last time you slept?"

"What?" Wes blinked at him, before lowering his eyebrows. "What are you, my mother? I'm fine, Hobbie."

"Sure." Hobbie wandered off until he found Tycho dealing with a petty officer.

"Hey, Tycho."

"Hey Hobbie. No, I want two _months_ backup fuel, not two weeks. Yes, I know that's longer than a scouting mission usually takes, but do it anyways. Thank you." The confused officer walked off, and a tired Tycho turned back to Hobbie. "What's up?"

"I'm thinking Wes and I should do the jump via shuttle, instead of sitting alone for several hours in the X-wings. If you get my gist."

"It's Wes?"

Hobbie shrugged. "Just might be a good idea."

Tycho thought for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. It means we won't be as battle-ready when we exit hyperspace, but I don't think that should be a problem. We'll just need to establish an earlier rendezvous with the Lambda. Can you figure out the stopping place, then tell the shuttle navigator? Don't forget to tell Mirax. And send me the new coordinates too, I'll give them to Chewbacca."

Hobbie threw a casual salute. "Sure thing, Tych." He turned and quickly disappeared back into the larger bustle of the hanger.

--

Ten minutes later, the Pulsar Skate had left the system, logging a report that she was heading off to deal with some business in a far-off quadrant. An hour after that, the Lambda shuttle and a tethered A-wing flashed into hyperspace in a slightly different direction: destination classified. The Rogues left immediately after on their scouting mission, and finally, a civilian freighter that looked suspiciously like the Millennium Falcon with a rusted exoskeleton, floated out from a smaller hanger and vanished into the limitless expanses of space.

* * *

Sorry it's been so long! I'm back. I was temporarily (as in, a few months) distracted by a story in a different canon, but now I'm soo happy to return to the good old Rogues.


	16. Hyperspace

**Chapter 16: Hyperspace  
**

The Rogues exited hyperspace still in perfect formation, the stars spinning on the other side of their plexiglass cockpits. Tycho immediately reached for his comlink. "Alright, Rogues, as of now new numbering takes effect. We all know what we're doing?"

"Kicking ass, sir?"

"I don't see any ass to kick here, Horn. Save the line for a more appropriate setting."

"Wait until the Pulsar Skate is within com distance," Inyri advised him, and Tycho ignored the ensuring com banter as he watched his sensors for any sign of the referenced ship. The Skate would be joining them any moment, and Iella's Sentinel-class shuttle, _Endor's Moon_, would be arriving shortly as well. When they'd all reconvened, he looked forward to getting out of his X-wing and onto Han Solo's ship for the eight-hour journey to the Yuman system.

"There she is!" Horn crowed, and sure enough, the Pulsar Skate popped into being as a red dot on his sensors.

"Alright, Rogues," Tycho told them. "Hobbie and Wes, you'll be with _Endor's Moon._ Asyr, you're with me on the Falcon. Corran and Qyrgg, you're with the Skate, Myn, Gavin, and Inyri, you're in your X-wings. Stay alert when we exit hyperspace at the next rendezvous point."

--

"What do you mean, you _aren't going?_"

Over the holocam, the leader of Blue Squadron gaped in confusion as the Head of Intelligence pinned him with an equally confused look. "What do you mean, sir? Wessiri gave us a briefing last night, gave us vague planet specifications, atmosphere conditions-"

"More to the point, how does an entire X-wing squadron get _left behind_?"

"Well...sir, we were told we weren't needed."

"By who?"

"Captain Celchu, sir. He visited me this morning, just three hours after the briefing. He said agent Wessiri was too busy to tell me herself, but that he wanted me to know in person...and for some reason he gave one of my pilots vacation time, too-"

"Did he by any chance tell you _why_ you weren't needed anymore?"

"Uh, no, just that the plan had changed."

"Fine. Look, nothing is probably the matter, Major. I'm sure Wessiri just forgot to inform me of the change. Don't mention anything to your pilots. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

"Fine. Enjoy your leave, Major."

Cracken snapped off the transmission and before sitting back in sheer incredulity.

"It's brilliant. For the love of the Force…Firthly, Rogue Squadron is currently on a scouting mission, correct? A nice little scouting mission so that they can avoid low morale?"

"Do you want me to contact them, sir?"

"They won't be there."

"Sir?"

"Celchu pulled a coup. He's going with Wessiri."

"Wessiri broke orders, sir?" Obviously impressed, his aide gawked at him.

"Hmmm. I doubt it." Cracken tapped his lip with his forefinger. "She could easily claim she knew nothing about the switch, that Rogue Squadron just popped out of hyperspace instead of Blue Squadron at the rendezvous, and that it was too late and risky to send them back."

"Well, that means Celchu broke orders."

"Who cares? Who would dare court-martial Celchu now? You'd have to risk all of the Rogues retiring with him. Not even Fey'lya would touch him."

Cracken sat and just thought, blown away by what he had discovered. He had completely underestimated Iella Wessiri. He knew she was incredibly sharp and competent, but this level of _trickery_, the _boldness_ of it..."damn Rogues. She's not doing this alone." Had the Rogues asked her to hold the mission? Their reasons for going back to the planet were clear; revenge. But would Celchu be prone to that? It didn't seem to fit with his normally strong and clear-headed character. No, that didn't make sense.

She'd been smart in not requesting the Rogues, because he would have refused her. Risking media attention for a small mission wasn't worth it. "Stang. I specifically didn't want Rogue Squadron on this mission! The emotional toll of losing their Commander-"

"Sir, now that I'm looking through the departure records...does it seem strange to you that the Millennium Falcon is missing?"

Cracken froze, and casting his sharp gaze at his underling, waited for him to continue.

"The Falcon isn't here, but there isn't a departure record…let me check." Firthly made a call and talked with someone on the other line, before hanging up with wide eyes and turning back to his superior. "A ship suspiciously similar to the Falcon just left a few hours ago, sir. It was probab-"

"Lieutenant, when did Luke Skywalker leave Home One?"

"Um, let me check, sir. About...the logs say he left about two hours ago. Location undisclosed."

"Well, I'll be damned."

It suddenly dawned on Cracken, why he felt like he was aging prematurely. Keeping track of his enemies was hard enough as it was. But keeping track of allies and friends on top of that? He sighed and lowered his head. "I have a pretty good idea of where Skywalker and Solo went. Either Iella Wessiri is mad and desperate to get thrown out of Intelligence, or she's our next Targeter. I hope to the Force it's the latter."

"Sir, what should I do? I'm handling the support for this mission, but I don't know..."

"All we can do is keep decrypting the information we have, and if we're really lucky, we'll get a few periodic reports via encrypted code. But there's nothing we can do to help them without blowing their cover. They're completely on their own now."

--

Winter and Tycho were both sitting at the Helm of the Millennium Falcon, where Asyr, Han, Chewbacca had left them alone. It was during the night cycle, and so they had the lights down, just their faces illuminated in a soft glow from the control panels.

They weren't talking much, though they were bundled up in jackets and blankets, it being cold. Han hadn't gotten the heater completely fixed since it had apparently broken several weeks before.

Winter looked particularly thoughtful. "Tych?"

Tycho didn't move from his comfortable position bundled up in the chair, and his eyes remained closed. "Mm-hmm?"

"I wanted to ask you something." Winter's breath came out in a cloud of fog. "Do you remember that time before we were together, on Ryloth?"

"That whole Tatooine mission fiasco? Yeah, it was hard to forget."

"Do you remember in that simulator, when I was so angry that Wedge tried to save my life instead of completing the mission?"

Tycho smiled, though he still didn't open his eyes. "Yep. You were furious. And I thought you had ice-water in your veins. Didn't realize the cold never reached your heart."

Winter gave a soft snort and a softer smile. "Sap-artist. No, but about Wedge...was he always like that?"

Tycho finally opened his eyes and looked over. "Like what?"

"I don't know, like that. Ready to just drop the mission to save someone's life. He didn't even know me very well, back then."

Tycho resettled. "Yeah, he was. He would have dropped the mission in a heartbeat if it meant he could save a friend. That was his biggest problem in life. If you _do_ drop a mission for a friend, other people might die. It ate at him."

Winter looked to the viewport again, the lights glowing on her face in a slightly different pattern. "I wish I had known him better."

"You knew almost everything there was to know about him, Winter. That's part of why I loved him so much. He wore who he was on his flightsuit. He was just...Wedge. He just did those kind of things."

"I need to thank him somehow."

"For trying to save your life that time?"

"Well for that...I want to thank him for dying."

Tycho looked over, and though his face was largely obscured in the darkness, his body posture communicated surprise. "What?"

"No, don't get me wrong, not in that way, love. But if he hadn't died, you would have. I think when he made you go back up, he was thinking of me. That is the best gift I've ever received, getting you back alive."

Tycho stared at her with emotion, not trusting himself to speak. "You..."

Winter unsettled her blankets and made her short way in the darkness to Tycho's flightseat. It was Wookiee-sized, and she crawled in next to him, the two of them melding together as one dark shadow. "Tycho Celchu, I've never been known to look a gift-Yvork in the mouth. And I'm telling you now, I don't want you to feel any guilt about Wedge's decision. It was for me. Alright?"

Tycho nodded, and they just held each other for the long hours remaining in the cold and dark journey.

--

His X-wing and Artoo bobbing on an electronic tether in hyperspace, Luke wandered the passageways of _Endor's Moon_, thinking. Periodically he nodded at some of Dendo's commandos, as they walked about with caf or card games or rifle-cleaning kits. More he stayed to himself. It wasn't hard; the Sentinels had been designed to carry up to 60 troops, and they had only supplied her with thirty. The rest of the space they had filled with back-up supplies and fuel, but it still felt empty, and even lonely.

As he made a second walk by one of the hallways, he paused – through the Force, he sensed a familiar presence. Hobbie?

He touched the keypad to one side, and door swished smoothly open. It was an empty troop deployment area, two worn benches running along both sides. Gear and cloth bags littered the ground and hung from the balance rungs, and an empty hum from the engine filled the room.

Hobbie was sitting near the door, ostensibly looking at a datapad. Farther down, hidden more in shadow and swinging commando gear on the pegs, Luke could make out the sitting figure of Wes. Hobbie looked up and nodded a greeting to him. Luke sensed something wasn't right. From what he could see, Wes' face was lifeless and blank. Luke found it a bit unsettling, having seen Janson's much more enthusiastic side. He gently touched the man's presence, but drew back almost immediately. Definitely not right. He looked at Hobbie. "What's going on?" He asked quietly.

Hobbie placed his datapad down and looked at the entrance to make sure no one else was there. The humming of the engine wasn't loud enough to cover their voices, but Luke instinctively lowered his voice to below Wes' hearing range, and closed the door. Hobbie looked over at Wes, and a look of worry washed over his normally wry countenance. "It's Wes. He's just, ah...having a hard time."

"Harder than any of us?"

"Well, yeah. Look, I'd appreciate it if you kept this quiet. For the past couple of years, Wes has these breakdowns. Something snaps, you know."

"Like a stress breakdown? Depression?"

"No, I don't think so. It's different. It has more to do with the war, I think. I think it just catches up to him sometimes." Hobbie looked relieved to be talking to someone about it. "It's only happened in downtime, when there isn't a mission or a battle. Usually me and Wedge can keep it quiet." Hobbie choked suddenly, and swallowed. "Well, usually Wedge, you know, could help him through it until he got better, and I just kind of watched Wes from the sidelines, checked up to make sure he was eating and stuff."

Luke understood. "And now he's having a relapse and Wedge isn't here to help him."

Hobbie nodded miserably. "I don't know what to do."

"You think it happened again because of Wedge."

Hobbie shrugged. "Probably." He put his hand above his eye on his forehead, and then looked at Luke and tried a watery smile. "You know, now I'm starting to realize that Wedge was the only thing that kept us together. And sane."

Luke nodded. "Even though he was pretty insane himself, Wedge did have that ability. But Wes - what is the situation? I want to help, if I can."

Hobbie shrugged. "I don't know if you really can. You know, all of us, the old Rogues, have some kind of this thing. Wes' just comes out in bouts, kind of goes depressive catatonic."

"And you?"

"Apathy. I just stop feeling. Tycho keeps it in and glowers. Plourr punches people."

"The new Rogues all seem pretty ok, healthy and all."

Hobbie sighed again. "Yeah. They're all ok. Makes you wonder though...in five years, is Gavin going to be just as messed up as we are?"

Luke shook his head. "He shouldn't have to be. We're on the winning side of the war, now. Soldiers shouldn't have to go through the same thing."

Hobbie looked melancholy. "I don't know. I hear the screaming sometimes and..." he looked over at Wes, who had suddenly stood up to stare as a silhouette out one of the portals into space. When Wes didn't move, Hobbie broke his gaze and turned back to Luke. "Sorry for talking so much. Anyways, you seem pretty sane, so that breaks my theory."

Luke sighed and gave another weak smile to his friend. "No, Hobbie, I'm lucky. I mean, I saw a lot of that early stuff too, but when I left piloting, all the Jedi training - the finding an inner peace, facing your true nature, all that really helped. Sometimes the past _does_ get overwhelming, but I can control it."

"Any chance you want to come back and give an inner peace tutorial?"

Luke smiled. "I doubt you or Wes would take to being told anything, much less how to find 'inner peace'."

Hobbie snorted. "I did have a shrink look at me for awhile once."

Luke stared. "By choice?"

"Of course not. Apparently one of the recruits thought I was displaying anti-social behavior."

A grin split Luke's face. "They clearly didn't know you very well."

Hobbie snorted again. "That's what I thought. Anyways, the shrink gave up after a week. Said I was too much of a smart-ass to evaluate. In different words, of course."

"Has Wes been analyzed?"

Hobbie shook his head. "Nah. Routine check-ups, he just hits on the evaluator for a date, they mark him off as classic narcissistic pilot disorder."

Luke waited, knowing there was more, and Hobbie, after a brief pause to think, proved him right. "Also, the moment you show any symptoms of 'repressed trauma', you lose your chance at officer promotion. They'd kick him out of any roles with responsibility."

"You think they would really do that?"

"Well, maybe not. A lot of officers from the old alliance are probably in the same boat...but they haven't shot as many people in the face as Wes." Hobbie picked up his datacard. "Anyways, he'll snap out of it once the action starts again. Always does."

"There's nothing I can do? Can I talk to him?"

Hobbie shook his head. "Bad idea. Very bad idea. Unless you want to get punched in the face."

"You're sure...not even as a friend? I could try some Jedi calming techniques..."

"Look, Luke, I'd bet my last remaining limb that it wouldn't help. Only Wedge could talk him down, sometimes me."

"...you only have on limb?" Luke gawked in disbelief.

Hobbie looked at him for a moment, then looked back at his datapad. "Yep."

"I thought the 'Hobbie losing limbs' thing was just a joke."

"Nope."

"Ok, tell me the story."

"Rand Elliptic. Biggs Darklighter and me had a little coup. My limbs didn't fare too well."

"I always forget you knew Biggs." Luke was quiet. "Hey Hobbie. What was Biggs like? No, I know what he was like, I mean on the ship."

Hobbie's eyes were unfocused, and he smiled slightly. "Well, he thought I was an imp. Didn't realize I was leading a mutiny the same time he was."

"Well, you are hard to read sometimes."

"Apparently. No, Biggs was...a good man. A natural leader. Charismatic, you know." Luke nodded, and waited for Hobbie to continue. Hobbie glanced back up from his datapad. "I really don't know what else to tell you. You knew him as well as I did, probably a lot better."

"No, I never saw him in battle, leading people. He always had it in him, though. He was like a celebrity back in our age group on Tatooine. Everyone knew Biggs. Knew he was going to be some sort of Hero."

Hobbie's face was serious. "Yes, I was too. Friends planet-wide talked about my potential for greatness-"

"Now I'm seeing why the shrink gave up on you."

"I know. I'm hopeless."

"So I really can't help Wes."

"Nope, sorry. I'll tell you if something happens, though."

"I'd appreciate that." Luke stood up to take his leave. "Take care, Hobbie. Of Wes, too. Losing Wedge was enough...I don't want anything to happen."

"Yeah, yeah, got it."

Halfway over the door threshold, Luke paused and looked back. "I still don't fully believe you have three false limbs."

Hobbie reached for his pantleg and began pulling it up as if to show Luke some mechanical thing in his leg...

"Alright, alright, I believe you. Take it easy."

"Seeya." Hobbie saluted.

The door closed shut. Hobbie sagged back and sighed, and then looking over to see that Wes was still looking out the window, climbed to his face and made his way over. He stopped a few feet behind Wes' left shoulder. "Wes?"

Wes' lips were moving, but he didn't look over.

"Wes? I'm going to get some sleep. Alright? I'll be on the bench over there."

"I should have shot bastard in the head...he..."

"Wes? I'm going to bed. Hear me?"

"If I hadn't shot him in the stomach, he wouldn't have come back and shot Clem - we could have gotten her out alive..."

"Wes! It's Hobbie! Here!"

"Wha -" Wes finally dragged his eyes from the window and looked at his best friend. "I'm going crazy Hobbie. I'm going kriffing insane -"

"You're not insane, you moron, you're going to be fine."

"Where's Wedge? I need to tell him I can't fly for awhile, don't think I can do it..."

Hobbie's stomach had dropped to the floor. "Wes, snap out of it. Wedge is dead."

Wes stared at him for quite awhile, Hobbie on edge. Finally Wes whirled and around slammed his fist into one of the hanging duffle bags with all his force. "Sithspit. Why didn't you fu- _sithspit..._"

Hobbie stood to one side and let him beat the crap out of the duffle bag, until finally Wes slumped down on the bench, breathing heavily and looking defeated, running his hands through his hair. "I completely forgot. I'm sorry, Hobbie. You probably think I've completely lost it. I guess I just wanted to forget."

"Everyone does." Hobbie sat down across from his friend.

Wes stared at the floor between their feet. "Hey, Hobbie...I don't want you to think I'm a horrible person if I say this...you know when Dllr died...that was really bad. But somehow, that doesn't even feel like anything compared to Wedge. I mean, Dllr was one of my best friends, but..."

"Yeah, I know. I feel the same."

They sat in silence. Hobbie looked more carefully at his friend. "Sithspit, Wes, your hands are shaking." Wes looked at said appendage curiously. "When's the last time you ate? Don't lie, either."

Wes shrugged.

"I'm going to get us something to eat. I'll be right back. Don't do anything stupid."

"Sure." Wes' eyes still wouldn't focus as he stared at the ground.

Hobbie sighed. "Look, buddy, we know you never stay like this for more than a couple of days. You're not crazy, Wes. Though you are an asshole to new recruits sometimes. I'll be right back."

Hobbie waited for another response, and not surprised when he didn't get one, stood and headed for the end. When the door had swished shut behind him, Wes continued to stare for some time, before his eyes focused and his jaws clenched. He looked at his hand again and clenched it several times into a fist. It stopped shaking. In a just a few more hours they would be back at that miserable planet, and then there was definitely going to be some unfinished business to deal with.


End file.
